


Rendezvous

by TigerOfSummer



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Sexual Content, Supernatural Possesion, paranormal activity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-01
Updated: 2012-10-30
Packaged: 2017-11-13 08:19:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/501416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TigerOfSummer/pseuds/TigerOfSummer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While still living in the Red Keep, Sansa finds a secret passage that goes from her bedroom to Sandor's chamber. One blessed night, she decides to go spy on him and sees him masturbate and while doing so, she even hears him whisper her name...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sansa is aged up to 16 because I never believed GRRM had a good enough reason to make his characters so god damn young! So let's pretend Jon Arryn was a little slower on the uptake and was assassinated about 4 years later than he actually was so that Sansa is older k thnx

Sansa Stark spent the better half of her time in her bedchamber, either studying her scrolls, practicing her needlework, or praying. It made no matter how she occupied her time so long as she was safe in the solace of her room, away from Joffrey and his terrible Kingsgaurd. Not entirely safe, of course. Joffrey could simply summon her by way of sending one of those knights knocking at her chamber door, and she’d have little choice but to comply. The reason why she was hiding, for hiding was what she was doing in truth, was because some part of her believed that Joffrey would forget her if she’d simply stayed out of his line of sight. Fade into the background and watch him find a new poor soul to inflict his wrath upon.

But Sansa knew that even then, even risking gathering his attention, she would try to stop him. Somehow come up with an innocent fib for the sake of saving someone some pain. She remembered Ser Dontos, the way Joffrey nearly had him drowned in wine at his nameday tourney. It was a terrible day, and she’d almost borne the brunt of Joffrey’s anger when she stopped him. If it weren’t for the Hound, things might’ve turned out for the worse.

 _He lied to Joffrey,_ she mused to herself, thinking upon Sandor Clegane. _He lied even though he told me he hates liars._ She wondered why he had done it, why he’d even care to save a wretched fool like Dontos, or help her. The way he behaved with her was frightening; he’d do things like protect her and go on to say awful things to her all the same, as if his mood alternated between good and bad depending on the weather. No, not the weather of course, it was always sunny in Kingslanding. It must be something else, some secret love for her he was constantly fighting for the sake of his loyalty to the King. _No, it’s not that either,_ she admitted to herself, _he still stood by while I was being beaten._

A sharp sting in her thumb shook her from her thoughts. She’d pricked it through the embroidery in her hands. A tiny ball of blood blossomed on her finger and she drew it up to her lips to stop the flowing, safely away from her needlework. Looking up through the window she’d been sitting by, she saw the sun setting and the light in her room was rapidly fading. She walked across to her dresser in search of a rag for her thumb, her shoes stirring awake the creaking floorboards beneath the rug.

Odd, the sound her shoes were making. Pulling a handkerchief from her dresser she wrapped it around her thumb and walked across to the window again, listening to the noises of the floorboards. Her mind would wander in such a way sometimes, focusing on the minute details of her room like the cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling or the number of cracks in the walls. _I’ve spent too much time in here._

She was sure there was a place nearer to her mirror where the boards squeaked louder, now that she’d paced back and forth a few times. She found the specific spot and stood over it, exactly three footfalls between her vanity and her bed. Looking down at her thumb, she contemplated moving the dusty carpet out of the way. The handkerchief was a little stained with blood, but not from her finger. She quickly realized it was the one Sandor had given her on that especially terrible day on the parapet… _Save yourself some pain._

She crouched down and slowly rolled up the heavy rug, wrinkling her nose at the dust it drew up. _Filthy._ Looking underneath she found some stray hairs, a tiny squished skeleton of a mouse, a blank piece of paper, string, more dust, and ah, suddenly the floorboards were cut straight through where once they were unaligned, two large rusted hinges appearing along the side. She ran a hand over one of them, two intricately melded dragons on each hinge, separated to just shorter than the length of her arm span. She rolled the carpet even further, looking for the handle she was sure would be there. Following the four sides of what appeared to be a door, no handle could be found. _Strange,_ she though, _whoever made this hole didn’t intend for it to be opened. At least, not from the outside._

Curious for the treasures and secrets sure to be inside, she set it upon herself to explore. Neatly folding the handkerchief back into her drawer, she grasped a candelabra in both hands, deeming it a good enough tool to open this secret door. The edge of the ornament jabbed into the ridge between the boards and, pushing down, she heard a loud _crack_ from the other end. One of the hinges had snapped from underuse. She didn’t care, because amidst the sound and a cloud of dust the door had finally gave, opening up to…

_Darkness._

No, not only darkness, but stairs. Leading down. She stared, wide-eyed. It seemed a steep climb down. Shuddering, she got up and lit the waxy candles melted into the candelabra. She took a step down.

Counting twenty steps down a narrowly winding path she finally stumbled upon even ground. There were ancient torch-holders along the wall, the snake-like shape of dragons breathing iron fire around them. She studied them as she walked on, imagining how long it might’ve been since last they were lit.

She halted at the sounds of scratching somewhere further into the darkness, somewhere the flickering candles’ light did not touch. _Flickering._ There was a draft. Meaning only one thing: _a secret way out._

Her heart was pounding in her chest, the hand clammy where she gripped the candelabra. She proceeded despite her fear, hoping against hope the Gods had answered her prayers, thoughts of sweet escape filling her mind.

A large rat scurried past her, desperate to flee the unfamiliar light. The walls were covered in dust or soot; some dried roots had crept through the cracks. She came across decayed pottery and scrolls, a rat’s carcass left to rot. Quickening her pace, she counted fifty heartbeats until she noticed a faint orange light up ahead. She ran.

And was disappointed to find naught but a narrow slit in the cold cobblestoned wall. She was just tall enough to peer over into the window that was too small for her slip through, too high off the grounds for her to climb down from. The sun was entirely gone, the memory of its red embers following in its way out. In the fit of her excitement, a single candle of the three she’d begun with remained lit. She tried to remove it to light the other too, but it wouldn’t budge. Her heart felt like it was sinking in her chest, her throat tightening. Keeping herself from crying, she turned from the window and found herself looking up another staircase.

Resolved, she continued to climb.

Another forty steps and her feet began to ache in her shoes. Her expectations were diminishing with every step. _I should’ve never came down here._

Watching where she placed each foot she was almost thrown back when her head hit the ceiling. A dead end. She brought the light higher. _No, not a dead end. Another door._ She did not think twice before pushing up on the old wood. Thankfully, any noise it made was muffled by the carpeting overhead. She pushed just enough to lift the rug as well, the weight straining her left arm and she heard a loud _thump_ somewhere in the room. Dropping the door, she took some steps back down, readying herself to run before someone found her in her secret passageway. But no one came. No footsteps sounded in the room at all. Deeming it empty, she went back to pushing.

Coughing through the dust, she managed to flip the door to the other side, pushing more of the rug out of the way. Her head poked up into the room, blue eyes scanning the place for any sign of someone who might be hiding. As she thought, it was indeed empty. Sansa stepped up into the room.

It was another bedchamber, poorly kept judging by the messy white linen sheets on the bed off to one side. Large white curtains flanked the tall window, and that was as far as decorations went in this room. A large weirwood dresser stood by the door, a dirty old sheet covering what looked to be a rectangular painting on the wall. Setting the candelabra down on a desk to her right, she walked over to the sheet. The fabric felt rough to her hands as she pushed it away. Sansa was startled when she saw her own face staring back at her through the mirror. Not her face, but a shattered, broken version. Whoever had owned this mirror had maybe dropped it and did not care enough to replace it.

Sansa moved the sheet back into place and wondered why there was a passageway leading from her chambers to this one, and why it was concealed so impressively. She imagined it to be a secret rendezvous point for a royal princess and her lover, a forbidden affair needing to be hid away from the public eye. Or maybe it was just an old passageway after all, long forgotten from underuse. She opened the dresser and found a large suit of armor, its knots and fastenings lying on the floor. But this was not any suit of armor. The ornate, white paint decorating the helm and breastplate indicated it belonged to a member of the Kingsgaurd.

She turned back to look at the white cloak covering the mirror. There is only one of the Kingsguard who would leave his knight’s armor to collect dust. _And he is no knight._

Sighing, she closed the door to the dresser and made her way back to the hole in the floor. The rug was disheveled, and the faded white chair that had caused the noise earlier was on its side. She figured he wouldn’t notice if she moved it away from the door, in case she wanted to make another visit. She pulled the rug with the door so that it concealed it once more and retraced her steps to her own bedchamber.  
***

The Gods, she found, were answering her prayers. But only in parts. Robb Stark was winning the war, it seemed, and Sansa had to the pay the price. Some weeks after having been forcefully, violently stripped from the waist up on Joffrey’s orders she still shuddered at the remembrance. The far off snickering, the anger in Ser Meryn’s eyes, the steel screech of a sword leaving it’s scabbard with insidious intent. It was the worst thing she’d ever experienced, and now she was being haunted.

Some serving girls took charge of her that day, mouthing meaningless comforts to stop her shaking. One stripped Sandor Clegane’s cloak from her shoulders along with the ruins of her gown and smallclothes, and another bathed her and washed the sticky juice from her face and her hair. As they scrubbed her down with soap and sluiced warm water over her head, all she could see were the faces from the bailey. Knights are sworn to defend the weak, protect women, and fight for the right, but none of them did a thing. Only Ser Dontos had tried to help, and he was no longer a knight, no more than the Imp was, nor the Hound . . . the Hound hated knights . . . _I hate them too,_ Sansa thought. _They are no true knights, not one of them._  
***

No matter how she tossed and turned in her bed, she could never seem to calm herself enough to sleep peacefully. Weeks had passed since the rioters in the streets had almost claimed her the day Princess Myrcella had sailed. It seemed the Gods were following some twisted agenda meant to harm her in every way, maybe pay her back for any mean thing she’d ever said or done. She could feel the fear in her tummy, twisting and pinching, worse every night. Nightmares still troubled her sleep; dark suffocating dreams that woke her in the black of night, struggling for breath. She could hear the people screaming at her, screaming without words, like animals. They had hemmed her in and thrown filth at her and tried to pull her off her horse, and would have done worse if the Hound had not cut his way to her side.

She had kept his cloak neatly tucked away beneath her summer silks. She thought about how it had once covered his shattered mirror and realized, in the dark hours of the night, that the mirror was not broken by accident.

Wiping stray tears from her eyes, she sat up in bed. Her bare feet touched the floor, making their way over to her wooden chest. Gathering the cloak and the candelabra, she went back through the hidden passageway.

Night and day seemed indistinguishable in the dark hallway, excepting the faint light from the moon, which shone through that small opening in the wall. The cobblestones were cold beneath her feet. She found the staircase leading up to the Hound’s room and began her ascent, the cloak folded over her left forearm.

Making it to the top, she threw the cloak over her shoulder and began to push up on the door.

And almost dropped it back down when a light shown in from the room.

 _Stupid! Should’ve anticipated he’d be here._ What had she been thinking coming here anyway? Did she think she could cover the mirror with the cloak once more without him noticing? Had she gone mad? She thought about turning back, that it was all too dangerous a situation to begin with. His presence in his room had frightened her badly. She did not know how he’d react to finding her sneaking into his chambers, maybe yell and say something nasty, or bring her to the Queen. _Somehow, I don’t believe Sandor would do that._ Had he saved her from the jaws of the riot only to have her thrown into an almost equally perilous situation? It wouldn’t make any sense. She considered revealing herself to him then and there, return his cloak, thank him for saving her, and go.

It wouldn’t work, she already knew. He would get angry with her, and that alone was enough to trigger unwanted memories. Still, her hand remained on the smooth wood of the door overhead. Setting down the cloak and blowing out the candles, she pushed ever so slowly, enough for her eyes to peer into the room.

She heard his heavy footfalls. _What is he doing?_ Large chunks of what seemed to be his armor were clambering onto the floor. He had just finished his guard’s shift for the night and was undressing for bed. Sansa lifted the door just a fingernail’s width higher, too curious and fascinated to leave now that she knew what was happening. _This isn’t proper at all,_ she thought. But she had yet to see what a grown man looked like under his armor, and the opportunity was too rare to pass up, even though it was the Hound she was watching. _Sandor Clegane, stripping, Gods! What am I doing?_

Suddenly he came around directly in her line of sight, and, with a sigh, settled down onto the chair right where she had placed it the last time she’d visited. Fear gripped her and she lowered the door, but only by a fraction. He was removing his greaves now, she could see, kicking them away. _What a mess._

In nothing but his breeches and a light tunic, Sansa felt she had to hope he wouldn’t have to remove anymore and just go to bed. But the Gods were ever spiteful, and he pulled the loose garment up over his head.

Her eyes raked over his upper body. His broad muscular chest was covered in hair, almost entirely so, and his large biceps flexed when he simply threw the tunic across the room. Covered in scars, he leaned back into the chair, spreading his legs as he went, his left hand massaged the back of his neck and she embarrassingly looked at his hairy armpit. His long torso was oddly shaped. She studied the ridges on his abdomen, never having seen anything like it before. Her brothers, she remembered, used to be very thin, and similar, muscular ridges had shown on their bellies once too. But Sandor Clegane was huge and still managed to maintain such a physique. Sansa realized his body impressed her, feeling the heat flood to her cheeks as her eyes traveled down a trail of more hair leading between his legs, under his trousers. Sharp V-shaped ridges near his sides seemingly lead to the same point under his belt.

Breathing unevenly, her eyes lingered there for a while. _Just a moment longer and I’ll go,_ she promised herself, just long enough to commit the image before her to memory. Her arm was getting tired holding up the door so she simply rested it atop her head, her hands at her side. She did not know what she was waiting for anymore. Thinking she’d seen enough, she almost turned around until Sandor brought his right hand down to his belt buckle and began tugging. _Will I ever leave this position tonight?_ He pulled it straight out with a whip and it landed so dangerously near her secret location she almost ducked her head so it wouldn’t hit her.

Both hands on his laces now, Sansa noticed something different in that area between his legs, as if a tent had suddenly emerged there. He was palming himself, running his hand over something solid and she was shocked to realize he was _aroused_ and was about to do the unthinkable.

And she could not look away.  
Sansa almost made a noise when he slid his hand into his trousers, drawing himself out all the way. The grip of his hand around his own cock was maddeningly seductive and, at the same time…

She used her free hands to draw up her night shift. There was an ache between her legs unquenchable by mere muscular contractions alone. She moved her hand over her smallclothes. _Wet._ Sandor began to move his fist up and down his long shaft. _So long and thick._ Sansa almost moaned out loud when she applied some pressure between her nether lips, somewhere near the top. A nice, small place that felt amazing under her touch coupled with the sight of Sandor pleasuring himself for the night. She was having trouble keeping quiet. Her neck was aching so she brought her hand up to hold the door once more. _Just a moment longer._ The muscles in his forearm flexed as he continued to pump into his hand, the head of his cock appearing and reappearing through his fingers. Sansa pressed harder, moved faster. He looked down at his himself, straight black hair falling towards his cheeks. The burned side of his face was towards her. Somehow, the sight of his scars only fueled her pleasure.

His left hand came to the base of his cock, and her eyes left his face to follow it. He pressed down around the root of himself as his right hand continued to pump at the top. He could’ve easily wrapped both fists around himself. _I could…_ He lifted his head, finally, his brow furrowed as if in anger, lips taut in a grimace. He hissed once, pumping hard, lifting his chin, _“Sansa.”_ She barely heard it before long spurts of a white liquid erupted from his cock and onto his abdomen. She forgot herself, gasped out loud, loud enough to make him stop in his movements and look straight in her direction.

Dropping the door, she almost threw herself in running down the steps.

Making it to the bottom in what felt like a single heartbeat, she paused to let her heart settle down. Her knees were shaking, but in fear or arousal she could not tell. Having left the candles and cloak at the top of the steps she was submerged in total darkness. Her hand along the wall, she began to feel her way back to her room as quickly as possible. She heard a sound from behind her, the creak of a rusty old door. _Oh, no!_ She kept moving, stumbling over pottery and cutting her foot on a broken piece. The clay had cracked where she had kicked it and she was sure he had heard. A light was coming up behind her when she spotted the staircase leading to her room. “Who’s there?!” she heard Sandor growl not far behind her. There was anger in his voice.

Disregarding the pain in her foot, she bolted up the stairs.

Making it up through the trap door, she immediately began looking for something to place over it. Her dresser wouldn’t budge. The bed was twice its size. _The chest._ Sansa began to push the large wooden box over the door and then proceeded to sit atop it. Resigning herself to sleeping there for the rest of the night, she laid down. If she curled up her whole body she could fit on the top.

And now she waited for the struggle she knew would come.

Sure enough, the pound of his fists reverberated through her. She hoped the box would be too heavy, especially with her on top of it. Closing her eyes, she prayed he would just go away. She climbed higher up on the box. _What?_ In a moment she realized she was sliding down, the door being pushed open from beneath her! Jumping off the box she scrambled over her bed and almost made it across, _almost_ , when a strong hand gripped her left ankle and pulled her unceremoniously back. She wanted to cry from shame, refusing to look over at him, scared witless for what he would do to her.

“The little bird’s been spying on me, hasn’t she?” he rasped. She almost choked out the words. “No, I swear! Please, it was a mistake.” Desperately looking for an excuse, she stumbled. “I found that door in the floor and was curious. Please! I didn’t see anything, I promise.” The hand still gripping her ankle loosened its hold, and she turned to regard him. He had not bothered to put any more clothes on, the laces still untied where the hair on his waist grew thickest. She gulped.

“Didn’t see anything, did you? Aye, maybe, but what did you hear?” He pulled her in closer, looming over her. “ _Nothing,_ ” she almost pleaded. Her voice was shaky. The nearness of his body to hers made her realize how cold she had been. He was emitting so much heat, _or maybe that is my own shame I feel._ A moment passed before Sandor’s hand came up to her forehead and she flinched. But he only gently moved her hair from her face, his fingers combing through her locks. He growled deep in his throat. “Why did you bring my cloak?”

 _I am caught._ “I was cold. I was wearing it and dropped it.” She knew she’d angered him for true now. The Hound hated liars, and he could always smell a liar when one was near. “Cold,” he said lifting her foot, “and yet you wore no shoes.” It was the foot she had cut in her frenzy to get away. She dragged her shift down where it was beginning to slide up her leg. “Please,” she begged when she saw his eyes follow her hand, “I promise I’ll lock the door, have it barred. I’ll never walk through it again.” He simply furrowed his brow and examined her foot, procuring a handkerchief it seemed from nowhere. Kneeling, he rested her foot on his knee as he proceeded to tie the handkerchief around it, suppressing the blood flow. Sansa was sitting up now, staring down at him, lips slightly parted in shock and _hunger_ at the feel of his hands working on her injured sole.

Sandor’s hands moved from her ankle up her calf, sending tingles down her spine. “No, little bird,” she heard him rasp, “or you’ll get yourself cut something much worse than what you have here.” The marred side of his face was in shadows, away from the candlelight. There was no threat in his voice. Something like relief swept through Sansa, but his hands were still on her calf, under the hem of her shift now. She pulled her leg from his touch, and immediately felt its absence. He made as if to get up, but Sansa replaced her foot on his knee again to stop him. She did not know what compelled her to let this savage of a man touch her like he did, but the flutter of her heart and the heat that bloomed low in her belly longed for his touch. She looked at him expectantly through the dim light.

Without another word, he placed her foot over his shoulder, and did the same with the other. She was feeling those same emotions from earlier, right in her core. His hands knowingly moved with the hem of the thin nightgown, up and up her legs, so softly, up until his face came dangerously too near. She leaned back in almost the same manner in which he had not a few moments earlier. A gasp escaped her when she felt his lips touch her inner thigh. The same urge to touch herself exploded in her body, stronger than ever before, but his fingers were at the sides of her undergarments first, pulling them off. _Up, over his head._ She felt the scarred side of his lips brush the other side of her inner thighs as she began to hear herself pant. There was nothing in the world that could’ve suppressed her in that moment when his lips touched the same spot she had so longed to rub for herself.

 _Is this what goes on in the marriage bed?_ Unfamilar feelings were coursing through her body. The way his lips would kiss and suck on the little knot there sent tremors of pleasure through her. Fear was long abandoned, the most seductive electrical current taking its place. When his tongue moved between her lips she moaned without caution, savoring every upward movement, up and down over that same delicious spot. What was he doing to her to make her behave in such a manner? His hands were still on her buttocks, the thought of them sent tremors through her body. She moaned again without surcease and felt his tongue explore her deeper, making longer sweeping strokes over her cunt.

Sansa looked down at him again. His eyes were closed, mouth intent on her. He looked like he was eating the most delicious thing he’d ever had and she gasped again when he dazedly met her eyes, shooting her a look almost carnivorous in itself. His tongue suddenly moved faster over that spot again and she was becoming increasingly overwhelmed. The hands on her sides squeezed and released her in turn, his wonderful tongue making a soft wet noise over her. His thumbs came around under her buttocks, around to her opening. He used one of them to gently rub her around there, teasing her opening while he still worked on the little center of pleasure at her apex. It all proved too much for Sansa. Arching her back on her bed she came hard into Sandor’s hungry mouth, almost yelling her completion into the darkness. Her hips were moving up and down on him on their own accord, riding out every single pleasurable current that raked through her body. She had never felt anything so amazing in her entire life.

He must have sensed her completion, for he then withdrew his lips from her. In a moment, Sandor Clegane was looming over her once again. His hands found her ruffled nightshift and drew it down over her knees. Sansa did not want to move, her chest was still heaving from the force of that feeling. 

He turned to go back down the stairwell, something bunched in his hands. It was not till later when she couldn’t find her smallclothes that she knew what it was. _Those were my favorite,_ she thought with regret. And she knew, then, she would get them back.


	2. Chapter 2

Days passed and word of Stannis’ armada being spied off the coast of the Fingers swept through the city like plague through an open wound. The scorned king was inching his way along the east of the continent, carrying plans to attack and invade the Red Keep. They were pillaging their way south, cutting down any commoner too proud to bend the knee. He was not unlike Joffrey in that respect. 

Distant fires burned down whole villages, leaving acres of good land dead beneath black ashes, uninhabitable, wasted and worse yet right before the autumn harvests, abruptly halting imports of goods. It seemed the only thing the townsfolk talked about, that and how they were starving, selling themselves and their children for a piece of bread. The riot was only the beginning of what was to come.

That night Sansa had shared her supper with the Queen and Prince Tommen. They ate in tense silence. The Queen, Sansa noted, showed no sign of fear. She was as graceful and calm as ever, glancing over at Sansa every so often to make sure she was eating. Oh, how Sansa hated her. Robb was fighting for the North, Stannis was pillaging and burning her realm, her people were starving and here she was, a Queen never faltering in her loveliness and sense of will. Sansa knew it was a ruse. A mask meant to demean her and her personally. It told her that the Queen was above them, above her own people and she could get fat while her citizens fell to disease and it made no matter to her. Sansa wanted to hit her. 

‘What is it?’ Cersei asked with annoyance. ‘Stop pushing your food around and eat. Unless you’d like to hand it all over to our groveling peasants.’

Sansa only then realized her words were directed towards her. She looked up from her food. ‘Forgive me, your Grace.’ She had subconsciously separated the peas from the meat from the corn on her plate. She took a bite. 

Cersei continued to glare at her. ‘Don’t think too hard while you chew. You might choke.’ A smirk. 

_Courtesy is a lady’s armor._ ‘I was only wondering how your Grace thought to resolve the problem of food shortages,’ Sansa ventured, ‘now that Stannis has halted imports from the Fingers.’ She hoped she hadn’t inquired too much. Cersei set down her wine glass and looked over at her son, who looked back at her expectantly. 

The Queen smiled endearingly at him. ‘A few barrels of fish gone missing is of no consequence. Our stores are full and your grandfather is laying down new roads along the Goldroad and towards Saltpans and Maidenpool that will allow for more transports to travel at once.’ Tommen nodded at her with a smile and went back to eating. Sansa simply stared.

‘If you don’t mind, your Grace, where are these stores located?’ A flicker of anger crossed the Queen’s face, but she kept her composure. ‘What matter is it to you that you must inquire further, Sansa? You need only sit on your dainty cushions and eat what we generously place in front of you and think no more on it.’ Tommen giggled. ‘Dainty cushions!’ Cersei smiled. ‘Yes, darling.’ 

After another sip of wine, she continued. ‘But if you must know, our maesters have stored hundreds of preserving barrels deep in the cellars of the castle.’ Sansa took another bite and listened. 

‘They are hard to get to without an escort really. All those winding staircases and hidden doorways. A wonder how they remember the way so well… ’ 

‘Is it a secret?’ Tommen asked.

‘In a way, yes. The tunnels were built by King Maegor as a precautionary bunker system after the roast of Harrenhal.’ Cersei said. ‘They are made secret so as to be easy to barricade if the castle is ever infiltrated. But that would never happen.’ She was reassuring Tommen. ‘It is a great maze made to protect the noblemen and noblewomen of the castle. Some passageways even lead to a secret way out in case some people needed to be smuggled away. But you cannot enter through those exists. Impossible.’

‘Did you ever try, mother?’

Cersei laughed, refilling her glass. She seemed to have completely forgotten Sansa at the table.

‘Oh my dear Prince, that is a story for another time.’ 

Sansa wondered at that. Bunkers were made to prepare for war, but that didn’t explain why there would be a hidden passageway leading from her room to the White Sword Tower. Who had lived in her room when the passages were made? And who had occupied Sandor’s room? There was nowhere else to go in the secret passage but to either of their rooms, she was sure. She resigned herself to further exploring that night.

***

The maids and servants of the castle were scurrying this way and that, making ready for the night. Sansa observed them carrying linen sheets and firewood back and forth between rooms. She was almost to her chambers when a fumbling hand grabbed her by the arm.

‘Beaut’ful Princess,’ a voice slurred behind her, ‘I haven’t seen you praying in the wood as of late. Is somethin’ amiss?’ _Dontos._

Sansa hissed. ‘My lord, this isn’t appropriate!’ She dragged the drunkard into her room. ‘If we are discovered to be going to the Godswood together, the Queen will know. You said yourself, it is safest to… discuss things there and no where else.’ Was it any good to try and talk sense into a man with half his wits about him? ‘Why are you here?’ she asked. 

‘My lovely Jonquil,’ he continued, ‘I have come to warn you that the day approaches. The day I shall grant you,’ he leaned into her, breath stinking of rum, ‘ _escape_.’ She shivered.

‘When?’ She asked, anger filling her voice. ‘How? It has been weeks. Months! Every turn of the moon I have you feeding me these false promises.’ She pushed him back where he almost drooled on her shoulder. ‘I am tired of waiting. Leave,’ she said with finality, stepping away from where her back pressed against the door. He grabbed for her. ‘Do not touch me!’ she almost screamed. 

He persisted, ‘my Jonquil, please, listen! Your Florian only wants you t’leave this vile place. To be happy once again!’ She bumped against her dresser when he caressed her hair. ‘In a few days time a war will come. That war will change th’tide o’things, oh it is sure! You will see, Princess,’ He began to lean towards her again, lips pursed as he made to kiss her. ‘You must wait for your Florian to give the signal.’ He placed a sloppy, wet kiss on her cheek. 

She pushed around from him again. ‘We shall see. Now, Gods! Please go!’ She threw her chamber door open, dragging the fool by the sleeve as she went. ‘Rest well, Jonquil,’ he said, before she slammed the door in his sweat-soaked face.

***

A short while later Sansa awaited her handmaiden to come attend to her. When she finally did arrive, she was waiting for her at her vanity. Sansa looked at her through the reflection in the mirror. She turned. ‘Your late again,’ she said.

Shae curtsied. ‘Forgive me, my lady.’

Sansa simply turned her back to her again. ‘Brush my hair, please.’

‘Yes, my lady.’ Shae began pulling the pins from her tightly bound hair one by one.

The girl watched herself in the mirror as her auburn hair tumbled down past her shoulders. The dents and curls in her locks reflected the candlelight, making it appear as though her hair was ablaze. Her mind wandered to Dontos Hollard and his disgusting drinking habit. He was the closest thing she had to escaping and it was equally as close to hopeless. She’d suffer her heart filling with hope every time she saw him only to have her expectations crumpled by his words. Waiting any longer might ruin her spirits completely.

Floorboards creaked as Shae moved around her, running her fingers through her hair.

‘Are you a woman wed, Shae?’ Sansa asked.

The handmaiden hesitated. ‘No, my lady.’

‘Have you ever… been with a man?’

‘If you mean it in the way I think you do, my lady, then yes I have.’

Sansa’s eyes lifted to look at her through the mirror once more. ‘What is it like…?’ she ventured.

‘Painful at first.’ The brush snagged on a knot. ‘Ow!’

‘And then, after some time, very pleasurable.’ She smoothed out her hair. ‘Has a man caught my lady’s eye, then?’

Sansa didn’t know how to respond to that. ‘I am betrothed to my beloved King. I love him dearly.’ Her chest felt tight. _I should never have asked._ ‘I was only curious as to what our wedding night would be like, once the day arrived.’ A lie, of course, but Sansa could not trust even her closest handmaiden to know the truth. At least, she could not let her know the truth of it so directly. A part of her hoped Shae understood her the way she wanted her to.

‘Of course, my lady.’ Shae spoke no more.

***

Long after her hearth was lit and Shae had left, Sansa sat nearby the trap door. Her slippers were on her feet, the sole of her foot long healed since the scratch she’d obtained the last time she’d ventured through the place. She thought of cleaning up the pieces of broken pottery in that hall so she wouldn’t get hurt again. A lantern sat waiting by the door, a dagger engraved with the Stark emblem in her hand. It’d belonged to her father once. She kept it on her person ever since that faithful day where his belongings were shipped back to Winterfell. Wanting something to remember him by, she remembered secretly snagging it out of the back pocket of one of the servants who’d meant to steal it for his self. She would’ve preferred to keep her father’s greatsword Ice, but Ilyn Payne had gotten to it first.

The point of the dagger sunk into the ridge of the door. Bending the hilt down, the wood moved up enough to slip her fingers through and flip it to the other side. She looked down into darkness. Sitting at the top of the steps, she was reminded of the crypts in her distant homeland. A young girl afraid to venture too deep or else her brothers or sister would try to scare her again. _Arya, where are you?_ She imagined her sister would have loved to go on such adventures as traveling through secret tunnels. Sansa might’ve discouraged her once, but for now, she wanted this secret to herself.

She began her descent. 

It took her a while to finally reach even ground. The last time she came down those steps, she had counted twenty in total.

Now she counted thirty.

Had she miscounted that night? She didn’t think so. It was almost impossible that she would miss full ten steps without realizing. Holding the lantern up near her head, she continued down the hall further to where she knew she would find the small window.

A glow of silver light from the moon crept from around the next bend. She was close. She took another step and took three more back, as silently as she could. Her heart almost dropped in her chest, dagger near her heart. 

Someone was at the end of the hall. 

The man, so his clothes revealed to her, was facing the window. He seemed to have been talking to a second person that she did not get a glimpse of in her moment of realization. Her chest was heaving. She put the back of her hand grasping the dagger over her mouth to stop her gasping. _Who was that?_ The man, she judged, was a foot shorter than the Hound, narrower at the shoulders. _And so sickly pale._ He seemed to blend with the light of the moon. _Light. My lantern!_ She hoped they had not noticed the candlelight. Who knew what terrible thing would happen to her if anyone found her sneaking around in secret tunnels in the dead of night?

Summoning some courage, she moved her head around the bend just enough to see them one more time. _Oh, how I wish Sandor would come down._ She looked.

And saw nothing.

They were gone. Nothing but the light of the moon shown across the floor and to the wall opposite, illuminating a step up the staircase leading to Sandor’s chambers. There was no place else for them to have gone but up. Utterly confused, she proceeded forward silently.

Bypassing the place where she’d cut her foot, she noticed no broken pottery anywhere. _I could’ve sworn to the old Gods and the new that this was the place._ The pots and ancient scrolls were exactly as she had left them the first time she had been down there. Somehow, she could not picture the Hound cleaning up that mess for her, judging by the disaster his own room was in.

Something was definitely strange in this place. Sansa could feel it in her bones. She almost made it to the window when a golden glow began to light up the staircase. Too late to turn back, she quickly blew out her lantern and pressed her back against the wall, enshrouded in shadow. 

She heard the scrap of metal and saw a big black boot reach the bottom step. His large body emerged from the darkness with the light. She hid her dagger in the folds of her dress.

Sansa jumped from the shadows. 'My lord!'

Sandor dropped his lantern. ‘Seven hells, girl!’ The glass cracked as it hit stone, light flickered and went out. ‘How many times do I have to tell you I’m no lord?!’

‘Forgive me, I only… did you see them? Did they come up through your room?’ Sansa was worried they might’ve been found out.

‘Who? What are you talking about?’ He rasped, looking around in the darkness. He hissed a string of curses when he realized he could hardly see past where the light from the window shown.

‘I saw, or else I thought I saw, two people down here. One was a man, they were talking.’ She wished she hadn’t blown out her candle so that she might find some other passageway the couple might’ve gone through.

‘You might’ve been dreaming, I wouldn’t be surprised. All those stories you’ve got drilled into your little head,’ he rasped. ‘Why are you down here again? You shouldn’t be here.’ He took a step in her direction.

She stood her ground. ‘You took something of mine, the last time… I want it back.’ She crossed her arms.

‘No.’

‘Why not?’ she whined. ‘Kindly return them to me, please.’ She leaned on one leg, her chin up. 

‘Little bird, about what happened that night…’ His hand rested on the windowsill. ‘I did not intend for any of that to take place.’ Shadows filled the craters on the burned side of his face. He seemed angry, almost confused. ‘Something came over me… something-’ 

‘How do you mean?’ He was beginning to worry her. She struggled not to reach out to him.

He growled. ‘It wasn’t me. I was almost… compelled. Seven hells, I should not have come down here. Back to your rooms now, I’ll have no more of this sneaking around.’ He moved towards her then, placing his heavy hand on her shoulder. They began to walk back to her room.

Walking a while in silence, they should have reached the staircase. It seemed the halls were twisting and turning more than usual, continuing on and on. Fear started to fill Sansa’s heart. She could derive nothing of his presence if it weren’t for the rustle of his clothing and his steady breathing at her side, the sound of his footsteps, surprisingly light for such a big man. _I should not forget matches next time._

‘I felt it too,’ she said.

‘I know.’

‘How?’ Her hand brushed his forearm.

‘No other way you would have let a brute like me do the things I did to you that night,’ he rasped.

A sharp sting pinched her heart. She did not know why his words hurt her. ‘I do not look back on that night with regret, if that is what you believe,’ she said. ‘Sandor,’ she added.

She could almost feel his eyes searching for her. ‘It should not have happened,’ he said.

‘Why did you take my smallclothes?’ she asked, her tone accusatory.

Silence. Then, ‘you took my cloak. I thought it only fair.’

‘I gave it back.’

‘You forgot it, you mean, in your hurry to run away.’

‘I was frightened!’ she exclaimed.

‘And now you aren’t?’ The proximity of his words startled her. ‘Stupid girl, I could’ve had my way with you ten times by now if I so wished.’ He chuckled.

‘You wouldn’t dare,’ she said, blushing. In a moment, his fingers were pinching her upper arm. ‘Wouldn’t I?’ he growled. They had stopped in their tracks. Sansa started to panic. Her hand wrapped around the hilt of the dagger. ‘Let go,’ she whispered where his breath brushed her cheek.

He did. Her hand relaxed. 

‘Where the fuck are we? We should have been here by now.’ The anger was rising in his voice. Before she knew it her hand was grabbing for his. She found his fingers, entwined her own with them, hoping it might calm him. ‘Only a bit further, I believe,’ she reassured. 

Another step and he grunted as she felt her arm being tugged down to the floor with his hand. ‘Umph!’ Her shoulder landed hard into his chest. ‘Are you alright?’ he asked, breathless. ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I’m sorry, what happened? Did I hurt you?’ 

‘No,’ he said, ‘we’ve found the stairs.’ His arms were around her where he lay on the steps. She could not even see the hand in front of her where it rested on his chest. Both lay very still. Then, her hand seemed to move of it’s own accord, fingers delicately touching his neck before they reached his bearded cheek. The good cheek. Her thumb brushed his lips and they parted beneath her finger. ‘Little bird,’ he said, his voice the sound of steel on stone. ‘Yes?’ Her thumb pulled his lower lip down slightly, playfully, touching wetness. Warm breath caressed her hand there. His large hand engulfed hers, pulling it down from him gently. ‘It is too late to be down here,’ he sounded as though he was struggling with something.

‘You are right,’ she agreed. Gathering themselves up, he escorted her the rest of the way to her chambers and, with one final glance, a single candle in his hand, took a step down.

‘Sandor?’ she said.

‘Aye.’

‘Did you clean the broken pottery down there?’

‘No.’ And before she could probe further, he was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

Down by the Mud Gate, outlined against the drifting smoke, she could make out the vague shape of the three huge catapults fastened on pitched rooftops, the biggest Sansa had ever seen, overtopping the walls by a good twenty feet. The light of the setting sun to the west painted those walls and weaponry a bright red, beautiful to her eyes, and yet it did not make her any less fearful.

A stab went through her lower abdomen, so sharp that Sansa cried out and clutched at herself there. She reached out with her hand and found emptiness. She might have fallen the long distance off the rooftop had it not been for a shadow’s saving grasp. The pinch of strong fingers on her upper arm was too familiar. Ser Meryn was here to beat her for walking through the castle unaccompanied. She grabbed at a pillar for support, her fingers scrabbling at the rough stone. ‘Let go of me,’ she cried. ‘Let go!’

‘The little bird thinks she has wings, does she? Or do you mean to end up crippled like that brother of yours?’

Relief, and then fear. Sansa twisted in Sandor’s grasp. ‘I wasn’t going to fall. It was only . . . you startled me, that’s all.’

‘You mean I scared you. And still do.’

She took a deep breath to calm herself. ‘I thought I was alone.’ She glanced away. 

‘Still averting your eyes, even now?’ The Hound released her. ‘You’d only dare look me in the face in the dark.’ He laughed.

Despite his taunts she continued to look out towards the rooftops. It was the first time they were in such proximity to each other since the last time they were in the passageway, discounting his presence around Joffrey, and somehow Sansa felt embarrassed by it all. It was as if Maegor’s Keep was an entirely separate world from their discrete tunnel. 

Realizing she might have been cruel to look away, she let her eyes meet his. It was only courteous, and a lady must never forget her courtesies. _The scars are not the worst part, nor even the way his mouth twitches. It’s his eyes._ She had never seen eyes so full of anger. But, as he looked back at her, she saw there something akin to sadness.  
‘I am looking at you now, am I not?’

His eyes narrowed. ‘You would do anything I told you too, you frightened little bird.’ 

Fighting to suppress a blush, she turned away from him once more. ‘I wouldn’t. And you don’t frighten me anymore. You won’t hurt me.’

‘Don’t be so sure,’ he growled.

She hated the way he talked, always so harsh and angry. ‘Does it give you joy to scare people?’

‘No, it gives me joy to kill people.’ His mouth twitched. ‘Wrinkle up your face all you like, but spare me this false piety. You were a high lord’s get. Don’t tell me Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell never killed a man.’

‘That was his duty. He never liked it.’ _How could he?_

‘Is that what he told you?’ Clegane laughed again. ‘Your father lied. Killing is the sweetest thing there is.’ He drew his longsword and she flinched at the scathing sound. Anger wrapped its scaled talons around her heart when he spoke. ‘Here’s your truth. Your precious father found that out on Baelor’s steps. Lord of Winterfell, Hand of the King, Warden of the North, the mighty Eddard Stark, of a line eight thousand years old . . . but Ilyn Payne’s blade went through his neck all the same, didn’t it? Do you remember the dance he did when his head came off his shoulders?’

Sansa hugged herself, an icy chill passing through her person. ‘Why are you always so hateful?’ She did not hide her anger.

‘What better fuel for a killer than anger, little bird? It’s what drives your gallant, shining knights as well. What do you think a knight is for? You think it’s all taking favors from ladies and looking fine in gold plate? Knights are for killing.’ He laid the edge of his longsword against her neck, just under her ear. Sansa began to shake, could feel the sharpness of the steel, and she thought of her father’s dagger. She wanted to hold it to his own neck just to see how he’d like it. Maybe draw some of his cruel blood. _No, Gods, I must not let his aggression infect me._

‘I killed my first man at twelve. I’ve lost count of how many I’ve killed since then. High lords with old names, fat rich men dressed in velvet, knights puffed up like bladders with their honors, yes, and women and children too—they’re all meat, and I’m the butcher. Let them have their lands and their Gods and their gold. Let them have their _sers._ ’ Sandor Clegane spat at her feet to show what he thought of that. ‘So long as I have this,’ he said, lifting the sword from her throat, finally, ‘there’s no man on earth I need fear.’

 _Except your brother,_ Sansa thought, and oh, how she burned to say it aloud. _He is a dog, just as he says._ A half-wild, mean-tempered dog that bites any hand that tries to pet him, and yet will savage any man who tries to hurt his masters. 

‘Not even the men across the river?’

The man’s gray eyes turned toward the distant fires. ‘All this burning.’ He sheathed his sword. ‘Only cowards fight with fire.’

‘Lord Stannis is no coward.’

‘He’s not the man his brother was either. Robert never let a little thing like a river stop him.’

‘What will you do when he crosses?’

‘Fight. Kill. Die, maybe.’

 _Die?_ She knew she wanted to hurt this man in this moment, but she did not want him to die. ‘Aren’t you afraid? The Gods might send you down to some terrible hell for all the evil you’ve done.’

‘What evil?’ He laughed. ‘What Gods?’

‘The gods who made us all.’

‘All?’ he mocked. ‘Tell me, little bird, what kind of God makes a monster like the Imp, or a halfwit like Lady Tanda’s daughter? If there are Gods, they made sheep so wolves could eat mutton, and they made the weak for the strong to play with.’

‘True knights protect the weak.’ Her diligence was unfaltering.

He scowled. ‘There are no true knights; no more than there are Gods. If you can’t protect yourself, die and get out of the way of those who can. Sharp steel and strong arms rule this world, don’t ever believe any different.’

Sansa backed away from him. ‘You’re awful.’ What more could she say? Sandor Clegane had greatly disappointed her this night. Not that she’d expected anything from him to begin with.

‘I’m honest. It’s the world that’s awful. Now fly away, little bird, I’m sick of you peeping at me.’

 _With pleasure_ , she fled. She was afraid of Sandor Clegane . . . and yet, some part of her wished that Ser Dontos had a little of the Hound’s ferocity. _There are gods,_ she told herself, _and there are true knights too. All the stories can’t be lies._

***  
Some time had come to pass since Sansa had knelt before the heart trees in the castle’s Godswood. They were now, unfortunately, heavily associated with the lingering aura of Dontos Hollard, his ever watchful eye upon her, never knowing whether his presence meant the time had come or just more upsetting news. She physically shook her head, frowning to herself for getting distracted amidst prayer.

When at last she rose from where she’d been kneeling, she approached the heart tree directly ahead of her. The wood was strangely warm beneath her fingers, silver in the light of the moon in the clear sky. She did not know why it comforted her so much. _It reminds me of home, that is why._ A soft breeze caressed her cheeks. She closed her eyes and let her fingers glide down the fissures in the old wood, the feel of sticky red sap where it bled from its eyes, and somehow, without turning, she knew he was there.

Directly behind her.

Sansa turned, opened her eyes and was not surprised when she found Dontos looking at her. 

The fool spoke first. ‘My lady, I thought it improper to interrupt your prayers.’ _Now, that is a surprise indeed_ , Sansa thought, _he is not drunk._

‘I’ve finished. Have you any news, then?’ 

‘My dear, the time is rapidly approaching.’ Eyes wide, there was something strange about him, almost skittish. His hands gripped his coat tight around his chest. 

She felt sick. ‘I see, the same as usual. Good night, ser.’ She made to leave, but a step to the right and he blocked her path. 

‘Do not lose hope, my lady!’ he hissed. ‘I will see you safe from this wretched place, soon.’ Reiterations, all of it. She walked to his left. ‘Soon,’ she heard him say again, as if to himself. She drew her cloak nearer to herself.

***

The pain came in waves; here one moment, gone the next. After some time maneuvering through her sheets, Sansa could not find any comfortable position. Either her lower back grew too sore or her legs became too tense. She got up from bed.

Not knowing what to do for the aches she walked around and found it relieved her some. A glass of water in her hand, she made her way over to the opened window. She was fond of the chill night air, almost quite in itself to match the serenity of the dark. Cool water slipped past her lips. Her hand drew back the heavy velvet curtain, her elbows rested on the sill. The stars twinkled in their millions, shooting past each other in some godly race across the seven heavens.

 _There are no gods._ His voice seemed a curse in the back of her mind. The girl thought of Sandor Clegane, of what could have provoked him to be so harsh to her today when in the tunnel he was not half as hateful. She turned from the black sky to look at the rug under which hid the door.

Might she find some other way out if she searched the tunnel one more time? Sansa thought of the two people she had seen the last time. _They must have gone out some way, if not through the Hound’s chambers._ She tried to remember the form of that mysterious man. His silhouette was so translucent she second-guessed whether she had dreamed everything for true.

Fire burned bright at her fingertips for a moment, then she lit the lantern.

With her father’s dagger she propped open the door for the third time. The door creaked to the other side. Looking down, her breath caught.

Inside, there was nothing but blackness. So dark she could not even see the first step leading down. Bringing the lantern closer to the ground, she could only make out three or four steps before her; everything else seemed to meld into an unknown shadowy realm. 

Her slippered foot took a step down and she felt as though she dipped it into a pool of ice. Her skin prickled up to her knee. Sansa went back to retrieve her cloak, confused at the cold she would have to face. Back at the doors mouth, she delved downward.

 _Fifty steps this time,_ she noted to herself when she reached the bottom. The stairs were extending themselves. There was no other explanation. Sansa thought the Gods might be giving her warning not to come down here. But she had to. She needed to see if there was another way out.

The darkness seemed unnatural this night. Her breath misted before her face in the cold. There was a pressing urgency in her chest and muscles, anxiety flooding into her heart. The light from her lantern would not exceed three steps around her, at constant battle with an almost overbearing shadow. The girl wondered if her candle might be dying.

Scurrying rats made their scratching footfalls heard at her feet. She had grown used to them the second time she was down here, but now they were running fast, faster than she had ever seen them. Some moved ahead of her only to come back behind, which she found odd. She continued down the hall, picking up her pace.

Black unlit lanterns appeared in the light’s range up near her head, startling her each time. The iron dragons only reminded her of the rats at her feet. Pain shot through her suddenly, almost crippling. Her hand found the wall opposite and she rested for a moment.

A draft from behind her, stirring auburn strands of hair. She heard a distant clattering sound from behind her. Sansa lifted the lantern towards the direction of the noise, but it was useless. There was nothing but shadow, and now it seemed to be closing in on her. _Where is that window?_ Her left foot moved forward and she almost fell stepping on a fat rat. The creature scurried away quickly, whimpering.

Continuing onward she could not take five steps without pressing upon a soft little body. The creatures were growing frantic and so was Sansa. The animals were squeaking around her, at every angle. Her heart sped up, her breathing was loud even to her own ears.

Suddenly, it became all she heard. The rats had ceased in their movements. Even the air seemed too still around her. Her hand reached for the grip of her dagger on it’s own accord. She turned her head in a cloud of mist from her warm breath, lifted the lantern once more behind her.

A woman looked back at her.

The sound of the knife hitting the floor.

Enwreathed in ribbons of silver haze not fifteen paces away, her tall, slender body seemed aglow against the shadows. Consequently, she lit up the hall twenty paces forward and back. The woman’s icy stare sent a raking shiver through Sansa.

 _’My love,’_ said the apparition. _‘Flee!’_

Sansa watched in horror as the woman’s entire person descended into hundreds of scrambling rats, a wave of beady red eyes cascading towards her. All she sensed in the horde was malevolent hunger. She cried out and ran further down the hall, as fast as her slippers could take her. 

The pain in her side was becoming near unbearable but the rush of adrenaline in her terror pushed her onward. Her skirts were hitched up to her mid thighs. Sansa had never had to run so fast in her entire life, and yet she felt the rats biting at her heels. She shrieked.

And then, like magic, the staircase appeared in her line of sight, _Ten more strides._ Stomping on rats without caution she bolted up the steps. The muscles burned through her legs. _Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen…_ Her extended arm reached the door. She pushed.

And found it too heavy to move. Her fist pounded on the wood, clawed, she loosed a deafening scream as the rats began to swarm at her heels. ‘SANDOR!’

In one moment she was kicking and stomping at the scratching little beasts and in the next, she was being hefted up in midair. Clegane’s strong arms held her to him, nearly dropping her as she continued to kick and wail. He took a step back from the hole and she dragged him to the floor as she could hardly stand. ‘What’s gotten into you, girl?’ he rasped. ‘Cease this shaking! Who was down there?’ Sansa’s hands trembled, gripping at his thinly knit sweater. ‘There were rats,’ a shudder, ‘millions of them. They almost got me, oh!’ She threw the hem of her skirt from her ankles, frantically examining her lower legs. 

There was nothing there, not even a scratch. ‘How many times must I tell you not to go down that way again?’ Sandor watched her pull her skirt higher and there, right below her knee, a trickle of blood. 

Sansa sobbed, trembling fingers pulling the hem ever higher, searching for the wound. But she already knew what had come. A wound not like any other; irreparable, irreversible. 

Sandor seemed to realize it too, for his hands squeezed her shoulders where he held her shivering body. Tears fell from her cheeks. ‘Here now, little bird, you’re all right.’ The girl settled into his broad chest, too tired to move, too shamed to say another word. A handkerchief appeared in front of her. _Why does he have so many?_ A distant thought as one of his warm hands came down to her abdomen, instant relief washing over her. The other hand wiped at her leg there, moving up under her skirts. She quickly placed her hand over his, stopping him, taking the handkerchief from him. 

‘Alright,’ he said with a sigh, ‘clean yourself up and I’ll take you back to your rooms.’ Warmth faded from her belly when he let her go and moved to the other side of the room.

There was no point in hiding it, she knew. Cleaning herself, she neatly folded the handkerchief and placed it inside her smallclothes. Her breathing was slowly coming back down to normal. She placed her hand over the lamp where it stood nearby.

‘We shouldn’t go back down there.’ Her voice sounded hoarse to her ears. 

The large man was hunched over the windowsill when he turned to face her. ‘We’ve no choice. If we are seen walking the halls at the this hour the King will have both our heads.’

He walked over to her, squatted to lift her where she still sat. The muscles in her legs screamed in protest when she tried to stand. ‘I can’t,’ she almost choked. ‘You must,’ said he, as he swept her up into his arms, carrying her back down into the dark tunnel.

Sansa cried silently, hooking her fingers into the loose laces at his neckline. Soft hairs tickled her. _My maids will know. The Queen will know and now nothing will stop Joffrey from having me._ The lantern burned bright and warm where she held it over her belly.

And then she remembered. ‘Wait,’ she whispered to Sandor. ‘There was a woman here! I saw her.’ She tried to come up with the right words to describe her.

‘Hmph,’ said Sandor.

‘Listen to me, she’s still down there. I know it.’ She was struggling to convince him. ‘She was white everywhere, bright silver like the moon,’ Sansa said. Her eyes stared into the darkness ahead of them. ‘She set the rats upon me.’

Sandor laughed loudly. ‘Little bird, that is impossible.’

 _No, I saw it,_ she thought to herself, and she knew it was no use trying to convince him. She hoped he could run faster than her.

‘There could be another door somewhere,’ she whispered. His jaw visibly clenched, the burned side of his mouth twitched. 

Anger brimmed on his lips. ‘I’ve searched this damned place seven times over,’ he said. ‘There are no doors but for the ones that lead to our rooms. Now, shut that pretty little mouth of yours ‘else this ghoul bitch gets the both of us.’

Annoyed, Sansa decided against furthering the conversation. It seemed only a moment had passed before they reached the stairs to her chambers. _And it took me so long to reach him. How?_

He began his ascent with Sansa nestled comfortably in his arms. She might’ve drifted off to sleep if she weren’t too frightened at what he might do to her. His chest expanded with every breath he took, step by step up the staircase. Her fingers wriggled under his neckline. It was odd how safe she felt.

‘Stop that,’ he growled. Warm breath puffed down to her hand, smelling faintly of wine.

Sansa bunched up his shirt, pulling herself up with it and placed a soft kiss on the man’s cheek. The burned side.

He halted right then and there. She bravely looked up to his face as he frowned down upon her.

‘We’re here,’ he declared. 

Blue eyes lifted to the ceiling. Her heart sank. ‘I did not close that door.’

Settling her down on her feet for a moment, Sandor flung the door open overhead with one good push. He entered the room alone, sweeping the place for any intruders. When she saw his boots descend to her once more, he said ‘There is no one there, little bird. Your door is barred from the inside.’ Lifting her again, he covered the final steps up into her chambers. 

Even with her weight in his arms, he hardly made a sound as he walked across the room to her bed.

Gently, he laid her down onto her featherbed. When he pulled away from her she realized she did not desire to leave his arms. 

Sandor took the lantern from her. ‘Sleep now, little bird. And you better not come down there again,’ he hesitated for a moment. ‘I will come to you.’ With that, he was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

That night Sansa dreamed of the riot again. The mob surged around her, shrieking, a maddened beast with a thousand faces. Everywhere she turned she saw faces twisted into monstrous inhuman masks. She wept and told them she had never done them hurt, yet they dragged her from her horse all the same. ‘No,’ she cried, ‘no, please, don’t, don’t,’ but no one paid her any heed. She shouted for Ser Dontos, for her brothers, for her dead father and her dead wolf, for gallant Ser Loras who had given her a red rose once, but none of them came. She called for the heroes from the songs, for Florian and Ser Ryam Redwyne and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, but no one heard. Women swarmed over her like rats, pinching her legs and kicking her. Someone hit her in the face and she felt her teeth shatter. Then she saw the bright glimmer of steel. The knife plunged into her belly and tore and tore and tore, until there was nothing left of her down there but shiny wet ribbons.

When she woke, the pale light of morning was slanting through her window, yet she felt as sick and achy as if she had not slept at all. Thoughts of what had transpired in the night swarmed her, replacing the lingering images from her nightmare. She just lay there, waiting, not wanting to move in order to prolong this morning. It was the last one in which Joffrey wouldn’t know about her flowering. Tears ran down her face. It was as if her own body had betrayed her to Joffrey, unfurling a banner of Lannister crimson for all the world to  see.

A rapping sound at her door. ‘Lady Sansa?’ said a muffled voice. Dragging herself from bed, the girl unlocked the entrance for her maids.

***  
Cersei Lannister was breaking her fast when Sansa entered her solar. ‘You may sit,’ the Queen said courteously. ‘Are you hungry?’ She gestured at the table. There was porridge, honey, milk, boiled eggs, and crisp fried fish.

At the sight of the food the girl realized she had no appetite. Feeling almost nauseous, she said ‘No, thank you, Your Grace.’

‘I don’t blame you. The first day is usually the worst.’ She signaled to a maid to pour her water.

Sansa lowered her head, fear rising in her chest. The same maid pulled out a chair for her.  
‘The blood is the seal of your womanhood, no matter how late it has arrived. Lady Catelyn might have prepared you.’  
A pinch in her heart at the mention of her mother’s name. ‘My lady mother told me, but I... I thought it would be different.’  
‘Different how?’ The Queen held an amused expression.  
‘I don’t know. Less... less painful.’ Cersei laughed at that. ‘Wait until you birth a child, Sansa. A woman’s life is nine parts pain to one part pleasure, you’ll learn that soon enough... and the parts that look pleasurable often turn out to be the most painful of all.’ She took a sip of milk. ‘So now, at six and ten, you are a woman. Do you have the least idea of what that means?’

‘It means that I am now fit to be wedded and bedded,’ said Sansa, and, reluctantly she added ‘to bear children for the king.’

The queen gave a wry smile. ‘A prospect that no longer entices you as it once did, I can see. I will not fault you for that. Joffrey has always been difficult. Even his birth... I labored a day and a half to bring him forth. You cannot imagine the pain, Sansa. I screamed so loudly that I fancied Robert might hear me in the Kingswood.’

Sansa did not know what to make of that. She felt something like an intruder. ‘The maesters say a girl will usually be flowered by the time she is four and ten,’ she said, implying she had gotten hers considerably late.

‘Yes,’ Her eyes found Sansa’s. ‘You are either exceptionally good at hiding, or dangerously unhealthy.’

She did not doubt her there. This was not the first day in which Sansa found herself repulsed by the sight of food.

‘You’re stronger than you seem, though.’ The Queen’s words were uncharacteristically sincere. Her understanding seemed to come from some horrid place deeply rooted within her. ‘You may never love the King, but you’ll love his children.’

‘I love His Grace with all my heart,’ Sansa said.

The Queen sighed. ‘You had best learn some new lies, and quickly. Lord Stannis will not like that one, I promise you.’

‘The new High Septon said that the Gods would never permit Lord Stannis to win, since Joffrey is the rightful King.’

A half smile flickered across the Queen’s face. ‘Robert’s trueborn son and heir. Though Joff would cry whenever Robert picked him up. His Grace did not like that. His bastards had always gurgled at him happily, and sucked his finger when he put it in their little baseborn mouths. Robert wanted smiles and cheers, always, so he went where he found them, to his friends and his whores. Robert wanted to be loved. My brother Tyrion has the same disease. Do you want to be loved, Sansa?’

‘Everyone wants to be loved.’

‘I see flowering hasn’t made you any brighter,’ said Cersei. ‘Sansa, permit me to share a bit of womanly wisdom with you on this very special day. Love is poison. A sweet poison, yes, but it will kill you all the same.’

 _Maybe for you,_ Sansa thought. _But not for me._ She took a bite.  
***

Later that evening, out past the castle walls, soldiers were working hard as they prepared for battle. It was heard that Stannis was hardly three days away, at most. The racket and shouts of men and women made their way up through her open window. Sansa looked down at the embroidery in her hands; a picture of yellow and red flowers, thin stems and leaves entwined around them against white cloth. Her chair was compacted with extra cushioning to ease her aches. Her mind wandered.

The needle glimmered, appearing and reappearing through the cloth pulled taut along the frame, drawing strings of green in its wake. Would Sandor come to her tonight, as he had promised? She did not know why she’d even want him there with her, or if she’d been subconsciously searching for him every time she went through the tunnel. She kept telling herself she was looking for a way out and found herself in Sandor’s arms each time. 

Despite his anger, there was something strange about the man in the dead of night. It might be that he was tired from standing sentinel as Joff’s guard all day and had not the energy to be as crude as he usually was. Sansa liked that thought, for she liked Sandor Clegane as he was when he wasn’t brooding. She could say things to him she wouldn’t dare say to anyone else. Not even Dontos.

Her eyes followed the needle as she pulled it from the frame. Unbidden, the memory of having kissed Sandor came to her. She blushed all alone in her room. The feel of his burned skin on her lips was strangely smooth and soft. She even remembered the faint smell of perspiration on his skin. 

Her fingers were sore when she finally decided to put her work down. She dressed for bed, figuring Sandor would come later in the night. _If he comes at all._ Her cold blankets were a haven around her tender body, soaking up her heat. The girl quietly drifted to sleep.  
***

Some hours later, deep into the night, the creaking sound of the trap door opening reverberated through the room, and yet it did nothing to stir the sleeping form on the bed. A figure stepped up from the secret passageway, looked around and then crept silently toward the girl’s bed. The room was dark; the moon did not shine this night. But that made no matter to this man, for his moon lay in a sweet sleep only a few paces away. The tall figure stood at the side of the featherbed for a moment. Her chest rose and fell with every deep breath she took. Her long auburn hair was spread across her pillow. He reached out with his hand and silently pulled the blankets away. The girl slept on.

He slipped in between her sheets. She was warm, a heat he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. Settling in behind her, he slipped his hand around her waist. _Far too long_.  
***

Sansa’s eyes opened to darkness; it was late in the night, some more hours still before morning. _So tired._ And then she remembered what had woken her. Her belly was suddenly cold. She leaned back against someone’s hard chest. _Sandor,_ she thought, sighing. She closed her eyes.

The man’s hand slipped from around her waist to her face. Cold fingers gently moved the hair from her cheek, caressing her skin there as they went along. Sansa found it is so sweet and relaxing. There was peace in his touch. She kept dozing off accidently when she meant to stay awake to feel him. Images of his mouth on her were bought forward in her mind. The way he had kissed her between her legs, using his tongue. A faint breeze wafted across her bare neck. _‘My Queen of Love and Beauty.’_

Smiling, the girl turned.

And felt the ice cold press of a knife’s blade against her throat.

Sansa looked up into empty, depthless eyes. Panic and pure terror ran through her. She wanted to scream. The decaying flesh of his face was almost glowing in its translucence. What was left of his brow slowly turned downward, as if to express anger. His mouth twisted horrendously, voice groaning under a collapsed larynx. _‘You are not her,’_ he snarled. _‘What have you done with her?’_ Sansa began to cry. That only angered him further.

_‘Where is Naerys!’_

Sansa gasped. The dagger he held was her father’s. She vaguely remembered having dropped it after she’d seen… _Queen Naerys?_

The dagger pressed down onto her throat.

‘No,’ she cried. ‘Please…’ 

A hard thrust downward into her bed and the ghost of Prince Aemon the Dragonknight collapsed above her, wisps of grey mist falling away on all sides. 

A longsword impaled her bed not a hands-width away from her body. Sandor’s fists held firm the pommel. 

Rage and terror filled the man’s eyes. He was just as stupefied as Sansa. The young woman was gasping for breath, tears still wetting her face. She sat up and found the dagger lay in her lap.

The bed jumped when Sandor roughly pulled the sword free, dragging little feathers in its wake. Dropping the weapon, he edged onto her bed.

‘Little bird,’ he rasped, his eyes still wide. His large hand reached for her. ‘I’m not hurt,’ she reassured him. Her small hand found his, pulling him towards her through the dark. The weight of his huge body depressed the featherbed unevenly.

Wrapping his massive arms around her he lay with her for a moment before talking. ‘I should not have doubted you.’ His warm hand came up to dry the tears from her cheek. Sansa nuzzled her face into his touch. ‘I would never lie to you,’ she heard herself say.

Then his lips were on her, kissing her. The girl kissed him back deeply. Her hand came to his, running her fingers over the palm and around the large wrist and down the forearm. She kissed him and his lips parted her own. His tongue felt warm in her mouth. Fire burned in her lower abdomen, right between her legs. Her body moved closer to his on it’s own accord. There was a hardness pressed up against her belly. He broke the kiss, breathing rushed. ‘You mustn’t marry him, my Queen,’ he rasped. 

‘It is my duty, my Prince,’ she whispered. ‘But you must know I love only you.’ Sansa kissed him again, passionately. Legs intertwined, she wriggled over him. Warm hands found her lower back, pulling her into him as close as possible. Her hand moved up past his bicep.

Their lips held each other when Sandor pulled her on top of him, breaking for but two words, _‘Only you.’_

Sandor’s hands gently pushed the silk of her nightshift over her thighs. Sansa’s hand found it’s way to his neck.

Warmth around her inner thighs. Fingers played with the laces of her smallclothes, pulling, tugging. 

She touched his face. _The burns, oh, my love._

And then the trance broke. It seemed it did for them both in that moment for the same look of disbelief traversed between them. ‘Sandor!’ she yelled, pushing herself from him.

The large man sat straight up abruptly. His long legs were tangled in her sheets. Somehow, her blanket was in a disheveled mess on the floor, the dagger along with it.

The Hound’s head tilted slightly back towards her, enough for his eyes to catch on her bare legs. Sansa moved quickly to cover herself.

‘It’s happened again,’ he growled, voice brimming with anger. He seemed ready to tear the sheets to shreds. 

Sansa placed her hand on his shoulder. ‘It’s alright,’ she said soothingly. 

‘What is _right_ , little bird? Tell me.’ He looked away from her.

Cautiously, Sansa ran her hand across his broad back to the other side of his shoulders. Her arms encircled him as best they could. _’You’re_ all right, Sandor.’ 

A delicate hand found the man’s face, turning him towards her. ‘It is us now, I know it.’ She watched the fury fade away from his eyes. The tears tickled her fingers. They made for each other.

And kissed once more, long and soft. She withdrew from him and saw the faint blue light of the rising sun on his forlorn face. Her thumb traced his lower lip, felt it twitch. Gray eyes lowered to her thin shift, covering her chest. She knew he desired her; it was apparent in the way he tried to hide from her. Blood crept its way to her cheeks, unbidden. 

‘You must go,’ she said, yawning. ‘My maids will be here soon.’

‘You have a battle to prepare for,’ she added. 

With that, he looked at her straight in her blue eyes. Understanding, and something very much like sorrow passed between them. Sandor touched a lock of her hair, rubbing it between his fingers. ‘Little bird,’ he sighed, ‘Sansa… I will not let tonight be the last.’ She believed him, and prayed to the Seven to save him, for even one more night together. A night she might find the courage to tell him what she really felt. 

The man’s large weight rocked her bed as he got up. He stood there for a moment with his back turned, looking out towards the window. The sky was a beautiful shade of dark blue, a few stars lingering from the night. Sandor crouched to retrieve his sword and moved down into the dark staircase.

Sansa got up after him. The door creaked as she closed it. When she had replaced the rug over it, she crawled back into bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more info on the Dragonknight go here ->  
> http://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Aemon_Targaryen


	5. Chapter 5

With the sighting of Stannis’ standard, a Baratheon Stag amidst a flaming heart, the commonfolk and nobility alike went rushing to the septry. The women sang and prayed for the Mother’s mercy to spare their sons and husbands while the knights and soldiers prayed the Warrior would grant strength to their arms. Fear and doubt stained most of their hollow faces. The conjunction of singing and crying voices reciting hymns, the incessant clangor of steel, and the groaning hinges of great bronze gates created a maddening cacophony on the castle grounds. 

She had been sent to see off Joffrey and Ser Meryn Trant, bid them farewell and wish them strength. Sansa watched their horses canter away. The boy King shined with his gilded mail and enameled crimson plate, ornate golden lions melded into the glinting steel. _May it meld into your skin in a pit of flame._

‘Lady Sansa,’ called a voice from behind her. The girl turned to see the imp mounted on a red stallion, armored more plainly than the King in battle gear that made him look like a child dressed in his father’s clothes. A battle-axe hung from its girdle below his shield. She kept a short distance from his mount when he spoke again.

‘Surely my sister has asked you to join the highborn ladies in Maegor’s?’

‘She has, my lord, but I thought to bid the King farewell before the battle. I mean to visit the sept as well, to pray.’

‘I won’t ask for whom.’ His mouth twisted in something akin to a smile. Then he was off with shouts and cheers. When the last was gone, a sudden tense stillness settled over the yard.

Through the quiet, the singing pulled at her. Sansa turned toward the sept. Two stableboys followed, and one of the guards whose watch was ended. Others fell in behind them.

Once inside the sept Sansa realized she had never seen the place so crowded. Making her way through the press, she was met with the sight of the Mother’s and Warrior’s altars enwreathed in the golden light of innumerable candles, the Smith and Crone and Maid and Father all paling in comparison. The Stranger was the darkest of them all, as was usual, but even at this God’s feet the small glint of flames flickered about… _for what was Stannis Baratheon, but this enshrouded Stranger come to judge us?_ She thought it best to light incense for each God in turn. Septa Mordane had once told her the Seven were but the many faces of a single God, so she wasn’t going to take any chances.

Sansa knew most of the hymns, and with those less familiar she simply picked them up as she went. She sang along with grizzled old serving men and anxious young wives, with serving girls and soldiers, cooks and falconers, knights and knaves, squires and spit boys and nursing mothers. She sang with those inside the castle walls and those without. She sang for mercy, for the living and the dead alike, for Bran and Rickon and Robb, for her sister Arya and her bastard brother Jon Snow, away off on the Wall. She sang for her mother and her father, for her grandfather Lord Hoster and her uncle Edmure Tully, for her friend Jeyne Poole, for old drunken King Robert, for Septa Mordane and Ser Dontos and Jory Cassel and Maester Luwin, for all the brave knights and soldiers who would die today, and for the children and the wives who would mourn them, and finally, toward the end, she even sang for Tyrion the Imp and for the Hound. _He is no true knight but he saved me all the same,_ she told the Mother. _Save him if you can, and gentle the rage inside him._

Sansa pulled the hood of her cloak up over her ears, and hurried toward Maegor’s Holdfast.

Almost every highborn woman in the city sat at the long trestle tables in the Queen’s Ballroom, along with a handful of old men and young boys. The women were wives, daughters, mothers, and sisters. Their men had gone out to fight Lord Stannis and his army. Many would not return, she knew, and she almost let herself feel some of their hurt. At six and ten, the young woman already knew too well the pain the absence of a loved one could cause. Her brother was risking his life in the North as well. 

As Joffrey’s betrothed, Sansa had the seat of honor on the Queen’s right hand. She was climbing the dais when she saw the man, Ser Ilyn Payne, standing in the shadows by the back wall. He wore a long hauberk of oiled black mail, and held his sword before him: her father’s greatsword, Ice, near as tall as he was. A sharp pain in her heart as her eyes descended along the length of the blade. Its point rested on the floor, and his hard bony fingers curled around the crossguard on either side of the grip. The brute seemed to sense her stare. He turned his gaunt, cratered face toward her.

‘All rise for Her Grace, Cersei of House Lannister, Queen Regent and Protector of the Realm,’ the royal steward cried.

Queen Cersei’s gown was pale linen, white as the cloaks of the Kingsguard. Her long sleeves were framed by a lining of gold satin. Thick tendrils of bright blonde hair tumbled to her bare shoulders in shining curls. The white made her look strangely harmless, almost maidenly, apart from the blotches of color high on her cheeks.

‘Be seated,’ the Queen said when she had taken her place on the dais, ‘and be welcome.’ Osfryd Kettleblack held her chair; a page performed the same service for Sansa. ‘You look pale, Sansa,’ Cersei observed. ‘Is your red flower still blooming?’

‘No, your Grace.’ She couldn’t stop herself. ‘Why is Ser Ilyn here?’

The Queen glanced at the mute executioner. ‘To deal with treason, and to defend us if need be. He was a knight before he was a headsman.’ She pointed her spoon toward the end of the hall, where the tall wooden doors had been barred. ‘When the axes smash down those doors, you may be glad of him.’

 _I would be gladder if it were the Hound,_ Sansa thought. Harsh as he was, she did not believe Sandor Clegane would let any harm come to her, especially after having saved her from peril two nights in a row. ‘Won’t your guards protect us?’

‘They will, my dear, but who will protect us from my guards?’ The Queen gave Osfryd a sideways glance. ‘Loyal sellswords are rare as virgin whores. If the battle is lost my guards will trip on those crimson cloaks in their haste to rip them off. They’ll steal what they can and flee, along with all those who _serve_ , all out to serve their own worthless hides. Do you have any notion what happens when a city is sacked, Sansa? No, you wouldn’t, would you? All you know of life you learned from singers and scrolls, and there’s such a dearth of good sacking songs.’

Sansa was rapidly tiring of this conversation. ‘True knights would never harm women and children.’ The words rang hollow in her ears even as she said them, but she believed them nonetheless.

‘True knights.’ The Queen cocked an eyebrow. ‘No doubt you’re right. So why don’t you just eat your broth like a good young Lady and wait for Symeon Star-Eyes and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight to come rescue you, sweetling. I’m sure it won’t be very long now.’

The girl visibly shuddered at the mention of Prince Aemon’s name. Settling into her chair she began to eat her broth in order to ponder the deceased Prince, if not to give her an excuse to fill her mouth with something other than words for a short while. It was written that the Dragonknight had joined the Kingsgaurd at seven and ten, serving four Targaryen Kings, including his own brother, until at last he died in defense of the latter. This explained why the spirit might’ve lingered near the White Sword Tower. The fact that it was specifically Sandor’s room he had occupied struck Sansa with curiosity, but she suspected the irony was lost on all concerned.

The tales made the Prince out to be to be the noblest and, in Sansa’s mind, the truest Knight who’d ever lived. She heard rumor that Aemon had been the Knight of Tears who had crowned Naerys as Queen of Love and Beauty during one tournament, but she’d never questioned the extent of the siblings’ relationship. There were even nastier rumors whispered that Aemon had fathered the Queen’s only son, Daeron, but Sansa refused to believe such absurdity. _But now…_ It seemed her suspicions were confirmed with the occurrences of the nights past. 

A spoonful of broth reached her lips. She looked across at the women and children and elderly huddled near one another all across the hall. What Gods had cursed these people to suffer the endless injustices they’ve been put through these past years? Food shortages, crime in the streets, inflation, it all seemed as nothing compared to the fear of losing husbands and sons and brothers. The people were put through one hardship after another, piling upon the masses like grime upon the delicate surface of a glass house. _This battle may prove enough to shatter these poor beings for true._

Granted, the people of King’s Landing had experienced the shock of defeated armies, a slain King, and a new ruling family, but even then such sudden reversals had proved not nearly as catastrophic as it had come to be now. 

The reward of comfort was not available to all, she could well see. It seemed disturbingly rare. While nobility who possessed wealth clearly exulted in its display, the very ostentation emphasized the fact that they were a distinct minority. The thought frightened Sansa, but the imbalance was, she well understood, entirely necessary. The system would not permit such economic equity, for the power and privilege it offered was dependent on the very opposite. Simple rules, easily arrived at through simple observation.

Every last torch in the grand hall was lit, and yet shadows still managed to creep into the corners and near the large tapestry and into the eyes of the people. Sansa looked at Ser Ilyn, who stood sentinel at the back door, his jutting brow casting a dark hue to his eyes. The others kept a short distance from him as they paced about, the large weapon in his grasp probably too menacing, too painful a detail to keep in proximity. Sansa followed the cloaked back of haggard old women as she made her way across the room until her eyes caught upon a peculiar sight.

In the shadows beneath a large tapestry depicting some ancient Baratheon glory, a short, lithe figure stood standing in the gloom. A rough woven hood hid the features of the person’s face. No one seemed to heed him or her; there was something about the figure that seemed to encourage inattention. Gazes slid past, rarely comprehending that someone stood in that shadow, rigidly still. But Sansa saw, clear and true, that this person who stood there was studying something distinctly in her direction.

The tall form of Ser Osney Kettleblack obstructed her view of the figure. He climbed the dais and knelt beside the high seat, sheathed in sweat and covered in fresh scars. Turning his cheek so that his lank hair fell forward, he began speaking to the Queen. For all his whispering, Sansa could not help but hear. ‘The fleets are locked in battle. Some archers got ashore, but the Hound’s cut them to pieces, Y’Grace. Your brother’s raising his chain, I heard the signal. Some drunkards down to Flea Bottom are smashing doors and climbing through windows. Lord Bywater’s sent the gold cloaks to deal with them. Baelor’s Sept is jammed full, everyone praying.’

 _The Hound, Sandor._ Sansa felt a strange relief in knowing he was still alive.

‘And my son?’ asked the Queen with barely concealed agitation.

‘The King went to Baelor’s to get the High Septon’s blessing. Now he’s walking the walls with the Hand, telling the men to be brave, lifting their spirits as it were.’  
Cersei beckoned to her page for another cup of wine and the young man scuttled over, a golden vintage from the Arbor in tow. It was her third glass, the Queen was drinking heavily. Her cheeks were flushed, and her green eyes had a bright, feverish heat to them as she looked down over the hall. _Eyes of wildfire._

A loud wailing resonated in the hall. One poor woman was ushered away before the rest were dragged into contagious sobbing. Sansa watched the eerily still form of the person still lingering in the shadows, making no move after the women who had just left. ‘Tears,’ Sansa heard Cersei say to her left. ‘The woman’s weapon, my lady mother used to call them. The man’s weapon is a sword. And that tells us all you need to know, doesn’t it?’

‘Men must be very brave, though,’ Sansa argued. ‘To ride out into chaos and face swords and axes, everyone coming for you with malicious intent...’

‘Jaime told me once that he only feels truly alive in battle and in bed.’ She lifted her glass and took a long swallow as thoughts raced through Sansa’s head, the image of Sandor’s legs entangled in her sheets. The Queen continued. ‘I would sooner face any number of swords than sit helpless like this, pretending to enjoy the company of this flock of frightened hens.’

‘Forgive me, Your Grace, but you asked them here.’

‘Certain things are expected of a Queen. They will be expected of you should you ever wed Joffrey. Best pay attention.’ The Queen studied the wives, daughters, and mothers who filled the benches. ‘Of themselves the hens are nothing, but their cocks are important for one reason or another, and some may survive this battle. So it is my obligation to give their women my protection. If my wretched dwarf of a brother should somehow manage to prevail, they will return to their husbands and fathers full of tales about how brave I was, how my courage inspired them and lifted their spirits, how I never doubted our victory even for a moment.’

‘And if the castle should fall?’ Sansa ventured.

‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’ Cersei did not wait for a denial. ‘If I’m not betrayed by my own guards, I may be able to hold here for a time. Then I can go to the walls and offer to yield to Lord Stannis in person. That will spare us the worst. But if Maegor’s Holdfast should fall before Stannis can come up, why then, most of my guests are in for a bit of rape, I’d say. And you should never rule out mutilation, torture, and murder at times like these.’

Sansa was horrified, but not surprised. ‘These are women, unarmed, and gently born.’

‘Their birth protects them,’ Cersei admitted, ‘though not as much as you’d think. Each one’s worth a good ransom, but after the madness of battle, soldiers often seem to want flesh more than coin. Even so, a golden shield is better than none. Out in the streets, the women won’t be treated near as tenderly. Nor will our servants. Pretty things like that serving wench of Lady Tanda’s could be in for a lively night, but don’t imagine the old and the infirm and the ugly will be spared. Enough drink will make blind washerwomen and reeking pig girls seem as comely as you, sweetling.’

The girl arched an eyebrow.

‘Try not to look so like a mouse, Sansa. You’re a woman now, remember? And betrothed to my firstborn.’ The Queen sipped at her wine again. ‘Were it anyone else outside the gates, I might hope to beguile him. But this is Stannis Baratheon. I’d have a better chance of seducing his horse.’ She noticed the look on Sansa’s face, and laughed. ‘Have I shocked you, my lady?’ She leaned close. ‘You little fool. Tears are not a woman’s only weapon. You’ve got another one between your legs, and you’d best learn to use it. You’ll find men use their swords freely enough. Both kinds of swords.’

There was no way of stopping the blush that spread to Sansa’s cheeks. Between her legs, she knew all there was to know about that after what had occurred that one faithful night. _Except, Sandor made no use of his…sword._ Her eyes grew wide when she remembered, for the first time, the man stroking himself to completion that same night. Embarrassment coursed through her as she felt she was being closely watched, though by Cersei or the strange figure across the hall it made no difference. The Queen narrowed her eyes at her and was about to speak further until the Kettleblacks interrupted her once more. 

She watched as they settled down onto their knees before Cersei. Of late Ser Osmund had taken Sandor Clegane’s place by Joffrey’s side, and Sansa had heard the women at the washing well saying he was as strong as the Hound, only younger and faster. If that was so, she wondered why she had never once heard of these Kettleblacks before Ser Osmund was named to the Kingsguard.

He spoke. ‘The hulks have gone up, Y’Grace. The whole Blackwater’s awash with wildfire. A hundred ships burning, maybe more.’

‘And my son?’ the Queen asked for the second time this night.

‘He’s at the Mud Gate with the Hand and the Kingsguard, Y’Grace. He spoke to the archers on the hoardings before, and gave them a few tips on handling a crossbow, he did. All agree, he’s a right brave boy.’

‘He’d best remain a right live boy.’ Cersei turned to his brother Osfryd, who was taller, sterner, and wore a drooping black mustache that made Sansa want to laugh. ‘Yes?’

Osfryd had donned a steel halfhelm over his long black hair, and the look on his face was grim, ‘Y’Grace,’ he said quietly, ‘the boys caught a groom and two maidservants trying to sneak out a postern with three of the king’s horses.’

‘The night’s first traitors,’ the queen said, ‘but not the last, I fear. Have Ser Ilyn see to them, and put their heads on pikes outside the stables as a warning.’ As they left, she turned to Sansa. ‘Another lesson you should learn, if you hope to sit beside my son. Be gentle on a night like this and you’ll have treasons popping up all about you like mushrooms in the spring. The only way to keep your people loyal is to make certain they fear you more than they do the enemy.’

‘I will remember, Your Grace,’ said Sansa, though she had always heard that love was a surer route to the people’s loyalty than fear. _If I am ever a queen, I’ll make them love me._

The Queen’s face was twisted in a scowl as the Knights walked away. ‘Would that I could take a sword to their necks myself.’ Her voice was starting to slur. ‘When we were little, Jaime and I were so much alike that even our lord father could not tell us apart. Sometimes as a lark we would dress in each other’s clothes and spend a whole day each as the other. Yet even so, when Jaime was given his first sword, there was none for me. ‘What do I get?’ I remember asking. We were so much alike; I could never understand why they treated us so differently. Jaime learned to fight with sword and lance and mace, while I was taught to smile and sing and please. He was heir to Casterly Rock, while I was to be sold to some stranger like a horse, to be ridden whenever my new owner liked, beaten whenever he liked, and cast aside in time for a younger filly. Jaime’s lot was to be glory and power, while mine was birth and moonblood.’

‘But you were Queen of all the Seven Kingdoms,’ Sansa stated. ’When it comes to swords, a Queen is only a woman after all.’ Cersei’s wine cup was empty. The page moved to fill it again, but she turned it over and shook her head. ‘No more. I must keep a clear head.’ _Seems too late for that,_ Sansa thought.

It seemed not a moment had passed before Osney Kettleblack was back, gliding past the enshrouded silhouette of a stranger, slipping in to kneel once more between them. ‘Y’Grace,’ he murmured. ‘Stannis has landed men on the tourney grounds, and there’s more coming across. The Mud Gate’s under attack, and they’ve brought a ram to the King’s Gate. The Imp’s gone out to drive them off.’

‘That will fill them with fear,’ the Queen said dryly. ‘He hasn’t taken Joff, I hope.’ 

’No, Y’Grace, the King’s with my brother at the Whores, flinging Antler Men into the river.’ 

‘With the Mud Gate under assault? Folly. Tell Ser Osmund I want him out of there at once, it’s too dangerous. Fetch him back to the castle.’ 

’The Imp said-’ 

’It’s what I said that ought concern you.’ Cersei’s eyes narrowed. ‘Your brother will do as he’s told, or I’ll see to it that he leads the next sortie himself, and you’ll go with him.’ After the meal had been cleared away, many of the guests asked leave to go to the sept. Cersei graciously granted their request. Lady Tanda and her daughters were among those who fled. For those who remained, a singer was brought forth to fill the hall with the sweet music of the high harp. He sang of Jonquil and Florian, of Prince Aemon the Dragonknight and his love for his brother’s Queen, of Nymeria’s ten thousand ships. They were beautiful songs, but terribly sad. Several of the women began to weep, and Sansa felt her own eyes betraying her.

‘Very good, dear.’ The Queen leaned close. ‘You want to practice those tears. You’ll need them for King Stannis.’

Sansa shifted nervously. ‘Your Grace?’

‘Oh, spare me your hollow courtesies. Matters must have reached a desperate strait out there if they need a dwarf to lead them, so you might as well take off your mask. I know all about your little treasons in the Godswood.’

‘The Godswood?’ _She doesn’t know, no one knows, Dontos promised me, my Florian would never fail me._ ‘I’ve done no treasons. I only visit the Godswood to pray.’

‘For Stannis. Or your brother, it’s all the same. Why else seek your father’s Gods? You’re praying for our defeat. What would you call that, if not treason?’ Cersei smirked.

‘I pray for Joffrey,’ she insisted nervously.

‘Why, because he treats you so sweetly?’ The Queen took a flagon of sweet plum wine from a passing serving girl and filled Sansa’s glass. ‘Drink,’ she commanded coldly. ‘Perhaps it will give you the courage to deal with truth for a change.’

Sansa lifted the glass to her lips and took a sip, desperately wishing the Queen would stop enquiring her. 

‘You can do better than that,’ Cersei said. ‘Drain the cup, Sansa. Your Queen commands you.’ It almost gagged her, but Sansa emptied the cup, gulping down the thick sweet wine until her head was swimming.

‘More?’ Cersei asked. ‘No. Please.’

The Queen looked displeased. ‘When you asked about Ser Ilyn earlier, I lied to you. Would you like to hear the truth, Sansa? Would you like to know why he’s really here?’

She did not dare answer, but it did not matter. She glanced over at Ser Ilyn, and then towards the shadows where she knew the lone figure would still be standing. But the individual was no longer there.

‘He’s here for us,’ the Queen hissed. Sansa barely heeded her as her eyes frantically searched the hall for the distinct cloak the person was wearing. Cersei’s voice was far off. ‘Stannis may take the city and he may take the throne, but I will not suffer him to judge me. I do not mean for him to have us alive.’

‘Hm?’

‘You heard me. So perhaps you had best pray again, Sansa, and for a different outcome. The Starks will have no joy from the fall of House Lannister, I promise you.’ She reached out and touched Sansa’s hair, brushing it lightly away from her neck, sending goose prickles all over her skin. Turning to look at the Queen, she saw it; the figure stepped swiftly and silently towards the large oaken doors, right past Ser Ilyn. The executioner did not so much as blink an eye.

***

When Ser Lancel Lannister told the Queen that the battle was lost, she turned her empty wine cup in her hands and said, ‘Tell my brother, ser.’ Her voice was distant, as if the news were of no great interest to her.

Osney Kettleblack pushed past him. ‘There’s fighting on both sides of the river now, Y’Grace. It may be that some of Stannis’s lords are fighting each other, no one’s sure, it’s all confused over there. The Hound’s gone, no one knows where, and Ser Balon’s fallen back inside the city. The riverside’s theirs. They’re ramming at the King’s Gate again, and Ser Lancel’s right, your men are deserting the walls and killing their own officers. There’s mobs at the Iron Gate and the Gate of the Gods fighting to get out, and Flea Bottom’s one great drunken riot.’

 _Gods be good,_ Sansa thought, _it is happening, Joffrey’s lost his head and so have I._ She looked towards the tall doors where the figure was last seen. _How did he or she get past the barred doors?_ Sansa thought of following after the stranger.

Strangely calm, the Queen turned to Osfryd. ‘Raise the drawbridge and bar the doors. No one enters or leaves Maegor’s without my consent.’

‘What about them women who went to pray?’ he asked raggedly.  
‘They chose to leave my protection. Let them pray; perhaps the Gods will defend them. Where’s my son?’

‘The Castle gatehouse. He wanted to command the crossbowmen. There’s a mob howling outside, half of them gold cloaks who came with him when we left the Mud Gate.’

‘Bring him inside Maegor’s now,’ the Queen commanded.

‘No!’ Lancel shrieked in anger. Heads turned toward them as he shouted, ‘We’ll have the Mud Gate all over again. Let him stay where he is, he’s the King-’

‘He’s my son.’ Cersei Lannister rose to her feet. ‘You claim to be a Lannister as well, cousin, prove it. Osfryd, why are you standing there? Now means today.’

Osfryd Kettleblack hurried from the hall, his brother with him. Many of the guests were rushing out as well. Some of the women were weeping, some praying. Others simply remained at the tables and called for more wine. ‘Cersei,’ Ser Lancel pleaded, ‘if we lose the Castle, Joffrey will be killed in any case, you know that. Let him stay, I’ll keep him by me, I swear-’

‘Get out of my way.’ Sansa watched in shock as Cersei slammed her open palm into his wound. Ser Lancel cried out in pain and almost fainted as the Queen swept from the room. She spared Sansa not so much as a glance. _She’s forgotten me, I must find a way out of this wretched madness._

A shrill cry from an old woman stopped the girl in her tracks. ‘Oh, Gods above, we’re lost, the battle’s lost, she’s running.’ Several children were crying, each wail tearing at her heart. Sansa stood tall and faced the gathering. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ she half yelled. ‘The Queen has raised the drawbridge. This is the safest place in the city. There’s thick walls, the moat, the spikes...’

‘What’s happened?’ demanded a woman she knew slightly, the wife of a lesser lordling. ‘What did Osney tell her? Is the King hurt, has the city fallen?’

‘King Joffrey’s come back to the Castle. He’s not hurt. They’re still fighting, that’s all I know, they’re fighting bravely. The Queen will be back soon.’ The last was a lie, but she had to soothe them somehow. 

After the crowd had settle down some, Sansa went to Ser Lancel and knelt beside him. His wound was bleeding afresh where the Queen had struck him. ‘Madness,’ he gasped. ‘Gods, the Imp was right, was right...’

‘Help him,’ Sansa commanded two of the serving men. One just looked at her and ran, a flagon of wine held tight in his grasp. Other servants were leaving the hall as well and she noticed they had unbarred the doors. Together, Sansa and the serving man got the wounded Knight back on his feet. ‘Take him to Maester Frenken.’ Lancel was one of them, yet somehow she still could not bring herself to wish him dead. 

And then she was all to herself. It took all her will to walk slowly from the Queen’s Ballroom when she felt the muscles in her legs pulsing for a good run. As soon as she stepped past the doorway, her eyes scanned over the faces of the rushing people for any sign of the hooded one. _Ah, there you are._ The rough-spun brown cloak turned sharply into a corridor on the right, leading directly towards Sansa’s chambers. Convenient, since she had it in her mind to retreat there once she found out who this person was.

Shouldering her way past raucous commoners, she held firm her gaze on the stranger. The path they took led them to some steps and when she got to the base, she did run, up and around until she was panting for breath. And yet the lone figure remained a good distance before her.

The tail of the brown cloak swayed when the figure slid onto the level of her bedchamber. Sansa slowed down her pace, now feeling suspicious of whether she should remain too close. ‘Hello?’ she called out. The person stopped, back turned to her, then walked two steps and strode right into Sansa’s bedchamber. A rush of terror spread through her limbs, but she continued forward.

Opening the heavy wooden door, she saw her bedchamber was black as pitch. She stood at the doorway in tense silence, knowing the figure had stepped in there just a moment past. _Where are you?_ Summoning what courage she had in her, she ran into the room and fumbled through the dark to the window. When she ripped back the drapes, her breath caught in her throat.

The southern sky was bursting with glowing, shifting colors, the reflections of the great fires that burned below. Baleful green tides moved against clouds heavy with rain, and pools of orange light spread out across the heavens. The reds and yellows of common flame warred against the emeralds and jades of wildfire, each color flaring and then fading, and birthing masses of effervescent shadows to die again an instant later. Green dawns gave way to orange dusks in half a heartbeat. The air itself smelled burnt, the taste of ashes and embers being pushed along on the night breeze she loved so well. 

Sansa whirled around to survey her room for the cloaked figure. Everything was aglow in faint green light. She was alone in her room and nothing was remiss. Except for one thing.

The trap door was open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original story continues in the next chapter, this one is mostly build up and trying to stay on track with the string of events throughout ACoK with a few tweaks here and there :).


	6. Chapter 6

A loud crack of bursting thunder from the bay sent the man staggering down the last few steps into the dark tunnel. There would be no light to illuminate his way this night; the memory of burning flames was too fresh in his mind. It would take some time to repress the images, men burning alive before his eyes, cutting them down left and right. He had seen enough. But for now all he saw was the slanting light of the small opening in the wall, a pathetic excuse for a window. The light changed from red to white to sickly green, and on himself he could smell the metallic odor of blood, none of it his own. A swig of the arbor red washed the taste away from his mouth, for now.

A large, leather gauntlet found the wall opposite and Sandor walked onward. One step, then another, feeling the wine make it’s way to his head. The flagon dropped to the floor; he would need to keep a clear head if what he intended to do tonight would work. He reached a bend in the path, but fire consumed his eyes and he could make out nothing of the world beyond. This far… on instinct, following a map in his head. 

He was close. He could feel it.

Then, a sharp turn to his left. _This corner shouldn’t be here._ He considered turning back for a moment, but with his betrayal of the King there was nowhere left to go. Lost. His map had failed him. The man had no choice but to follow the unknown path. He made the turn.

And in the distance, far into the passageway, a silver light shone down from a tall ceiling onto a gathering of dust clouds. Not unlike the one that shone from the slit in the wall, yet this one seemed to… _move._ Sandor approached cautiously, not knowing whether the mist moved towards him or away from him. Just before he could finish his thought, a soft breeze gusted against his sweat soaked face, cooling his skin on the unmarred side. _Ah, to me, then._

The warrior allowed his right foot to scrape as he stepped forward. He was surprised to hear it echo around him, as if he no longer occupied the narrow corridor and had stepped into a massive hall. He walked swiftly and silently towards the apparition. As he studied the mist, attempting to decipher what hid within it, he sensed it’s sudden, heightened awareness – and perhaps something like alarm. Fifteen paces in, the silhouette of a contorted figure was beginning to take form. He drew out his longsword with one smooth pull, the blade singing against its scabbard. 

When he looked again, the silver, glowing fog had dispersed thirty paces on all sides, revealing the full length of the hall. It twisted around marble pillars thick as tree trunks, seeping into blackened cracks that ran around the length of them. Sandor stepped forward once more as the figure revealed itself amidst the smoke.

Standing not fifty paces from him was a monstrosity of a horse, white as sun bleached bone, the long mane shining silver in its luminescence. It’s rider’s practiced hands held tight the reigns as the two muscular front legs of the beast kicked out once, twice, and landed with a strong huff that spread the mist out from below like a crater. The clattering of its hooves on the stone floor resounded through the hall, making it seem as if a stampede was underway.

Sandor could make nothing of the rider behind his gilded helm, but he had a good enough idea already. The Knight of Tears drew out his sword, and drove his heels into the horse’s flanks. The animal voiced an indignant grunt.

Sandor took a deep breath, then held his sword ready at an angle like a lance.

The creature’s head twitched, a strange sideways tilt, then it charged, leaning far over as the massive legs propelled it forward.

And Sandor launched himself straight at it.

A shadow, then a distant scream.

***

Where Sansa remembered there to be steps she found, instead, nothing but shadow. Her right foot sunk into the darkness, her heart leapt in her chest and she loosed an ear-splitting scream for a moment before the shock took hold in her mind. She was falling into a black abyss, auburn hair whipping before her face as the last shimmer of jade light disappeared into the shadows. This was the end. _I should have never come down here,_ she remembered having thought once. She stared up at the shrinking doorway above her, sparkling dust reflecting in the light, resembling snow. She closed her eyes, lashes tickling her skin. _Lady,_ she thought distantly, wondering if she would meet her wolf again when she was dead.

And then, all throughout her skin, ice. The cold gripped her so tightly in its grasp that her limbs grew numb and folded in on her person. Her eyes were firmly shut, and she released a shuddering whimper that scattered the mist around her, like a cloud of silver smoke. 

She remained frozen where she lay, could not keep the shivering from her muscles. Like the ripples running through the surface of a pond in Winterfell’s Godswood, so too did her heart emit a strangely calming heat across her entire person, spreading slowly from her chest, then her shoulders, hips, arms, legs. _Death, come at last to warm me in its embrace._ Her cheeks grew pink. Sansa opened her eyes.

A ghastly scene shown before her. A silver God rode his horse into a canter, then a gallop, headlong towards a figure in the shade. A dark Knight, rushing to meet the God’s mount with a longsword aimed straight for the creature’s heart. 

They collided. 

And that was the last she saw of her Knight.

***

The beast’s legs rose to kick him down, as Sandor had anticipated they would. He ducked under as the point of the long, notched blade cut a clean path through layers of muscle and meat, the crunch of bone, as Sandor pushed his entire weight into the thrust. With his feet under him, he drove sideways, evading the descending legs, a noise like a roar ripping from the creature’s throat. Grasping its legs, he heaved the horse over on its side, rider and all.

The beast crashed down, cracking its head on the stone underneath.

Sandor kicked it in the throat.

And the animal ceased its convulsions, the sword still impaled deep into its chest. _Now, you._

Sandor lunged at the sprawled figure on the ground. Ducking a perilous swing with the sword, he closed in on the wrist that held it, twisting again until he heard the arm pop at the shoulder. The apparition screamed.

The large man clambered onto its chest, his fists hammering on the dome of its skull. Each blow shook the ghoul’s bones. Teeth snapped, the head driven down at each blow, springing back up in time to meet the next one. Struggling beneath him, the right arm hanging limp, the left one attempted to reach up to scrape him off.

Sandor continued swinging, his own hands numbed by the impacts.

Finally, he heard the skull crack.

A rattling gasp of breath – from him or the apparition, he wasn’t sure which – then the body dropped. He heard a sound like a gust of wind and the figure that lay trapped beneath him suddenly descended into glimmering dust. He rose from his knees and stepped around the massive beast to wrench his longsword from its chest, sheathing it once more. 

He then turned, and saw his little bird lay unconscious a few paces from him. What light fell from the trap door directly above her illuminated her in a way that was eerily beautiful. 

She seemed in a peaceful sleep; so much so that Sandor was loathed to disturb her. But even as he thought this, his own aching legs carried him towards her. And, the nearer he came, the more he realized it was not a sweet sleep she was descending into. He broke into a sprint. _Might be something sweeter._

***

Delicious warmth consumed her, filling every fissure in her broken soul. She could no longer sense her forearms and her legs were quietly following down the same path. All she could feel now was heat, and a tugging at her back. The girl’s journey was not yet done, it seemed. There were still more obstacles to be overcome.

She slept on.

***

Some clumsy bumps to the head drove her in and out of consciousness. _What… what is this?_ Too dizzy to open her eyes, she tried to move and blinding agony exploded in her limbs, the hammering of her heart deafening in her skull. Sansa cried out.

‘Do not move, little bird. You’ll only make it worse.’

His voice above her was as harsh as steel on stone, laced with anxiousness. She could not see him. _Is this a dream? Are we both dead?_ They were engulfed in darkness. It made no difference had she closed her eyes to opening them. ‘Have we-ah… been sent to some Hell,’ she managed to whisper. Her throat felt aflame from the mere effort it took to ask the question. 

‘I can still smell the blood on my skin and feel skittering of your heart, so no.’ He scoffed. ‘We are still very much alive. But this feels worse than any of the Seven Hells.’ 

‘What…what have you done?’ A tear fell from her eye.

‘I killed your bloody Dragonknight, little bird.’

‘Where are you going?’ Her throat was slowly beginning to feel better, as were her limbs, though she dared not move them again.

‘Away from this damned black labyrinth,’ he growled. ‘We must find-‘

‘Sandor,’ She interrupted. ‘I know a way.’

Armor stopped its incessant clamors when he stood still, holding Sansa tightly in his arms. When she tried to move her own, she found she was wrapped in another layer of a warm cloak, stinking of soot and dust.

‘Out with it,’ he demanded.

Sansa had no idea whether it would work or not, but she knew it could mean their lives if they just tried it.

‘You must kiss me,’ she ordered.

The Hound’s breastplate was hard against her shoulder. He remained still.

‘Why,’ he asked, hesitating. Then he resumed walking blindly.

‘Because,’ Sansa continued, throat still feeling sore, ‘whenever I was alone in the hallway, I faced serious danger. But when I was with you…’ The sensation of a blush blooming in her body felt like pure bliss, a wave of relief. ‘When I was with you, we found our way easily enough.’

He said nothing. He seemed to be thinking.

Sansa went on. ‘I held your hand once, after you’d frightened me. We were almost lost, but then I held your hand and we stumbled upon the staircase.’ Her voice resounded in the hall. _How stubborn is this man?_ ‘You fell and you dragged me along with-‘

All other words were muffled when she was hefted higher into his arms, and she felt the warmth of his lips meeting hers. She tasted the salt of his sweat, felt the tickle of the short stubble on his skin. But his lips were gone before she could return the kiss.

Nothing happened. The darkness was growing close to suffocating them. She felt his breathing grow faster.

‘Sandor,’ she said calmly, ‘I hardly kissed you.’ The girl would not have believed herself to be saying these words ever in her life, but now, she needed to say them in order to save it.

‘Last chance,’ he grumbled, and his cruel lips were on her again. This time, she was ready.

Sansa almost kissed him too hard, but their lips softened onto each other, molding together as she pulled back a hair’s width only to come forward and kiss him again. The scarred side of his mouth felt strange, but she had touched it before, smooth skin pulled taut. She kissed him hard again, and he met her with equal intensity. Her tongue slipped over his bottom lip as she sucked gently on it. A warmth at the sides of her face and she hardly realized they had descended upon the cold stone floor, Sandor’s gloved hands cupping her just below her jaw. His tongue moved across hers in her mouth. She sighed at that, hands reaching up around his thick wrists, eyelids fluttering open. His eyes remained closed. ‘You taste of wine,’ he whispered roughly.

‘Open your eyes!’ Sansa exclaimed between kisses. 

He did. And when he did, all around them shone a grand ballroom, glowing in golden light shining down from colossal chandeliers. Thick, white marble pillars lined the dance floor, looming over beautiful black and golden designs in the tiles. House sigils lined the inlays. Wolves and stags and lions and fish. Huge tapestries decorated the walls at every direction; each one filled with elaborate, romanticized battle scenes, the many conquests of the Targaryen line of Kings and Queens, torches blazing at their sides. In the center of it all, a great mural depicting two magnificent dragons interlocked in their ancient sky dance, spiraling downward headfirst. At the end of the great hall stood two enormous wooden doors, stained red to match the decorations of the ballroom. And there, at its base, stood a lone, hooded figure that Sansa recognized instantly.

She turned excitedly to look at Sandor and almost screamed when she saw what he looked like in the light. The man’s face was drenched in blood, and coupled with the scars on the side he presented a horrid sight. Sensing the look on her face, he gave her a ghastly smile, white against red, and barked a laugh. She shook him, still too weak to walk. ‘Please, we must hurry!’ Sansa hissed. ‘She’ll leave us if we aren’t quick enough.’

Pushing a hand through his black hair, Sandor’s grey eyes studied the door. Her eyes followed his, and she looked back to see the figure had gone, leaving one of the doors slightly ajar.

Sandor moved around her, crouched, and gathered her up in his arms again. Sansa loved how strong his arms were, and took a moment to admire them as he began to walk towards the door. Wrapping a still sore arm around his neck, she peered over his shoulder to scan the enchanting room they were leaving behind. Hoping to commit the image to memory, she imagined herself dancing in the center of it all. She grabbed him tighter.


	7. Chapter 7

The large warrior’s boot made a scratching sound on the door as he pushed it aside. Red stained weirwood, centuries old, creaked as it opened up to darkness. _No, not again._ This was the way the hooded figure had left, most likely leading them to some exit from this worrisome maze that was once a secret passage way, a simple hall connecting but two rooms. 

There was no other option but to continue into the dark. The man carrying her knew this to be true, for his gait did not falter in continuing onward. He walked, and as he walked even his light, expert steps resounded in the dark, the sound of them filling Sansa’s head. It became all she heard, the _thump, thump, thumping_ of each footfall consuming her until a tightness took hold in her chest. Her breathing became ragged. ‘Please, can we stop for a moment?’

‘No, we’ve no time to waste.’ She thought she heard a taint of fear in his voice. ‘The sun will be up soon. They’ll find you gone, and me along with. If that buggering boy King has any sense he’ll have sent for us both at first light.’

A sinking feeling in the girl’s chest.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked, eyes wide in the darkness.

‘Away from here, north might be.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘ _No!_ Take me back! Stannis won’t hurt me! Please.’ Her fingers touched the rough, moist skin of his neck. She was desperate, thoughts racing back to Dontos and what he had planned for her. What if it was a safer way out? ‘They’ll take you back, I know it. They will pardon you-‘

‘Little bird, I’ve no intention of going back. I’m leaving, and whether you want me to take you north matters not so long as we’re lost in this seven times damned hell.’ He spat off to the side.

‘You would do that?’ she half whispered.

‘Aye, I would.’ His voice was directed down towards her. He might’ve been looking at her if it weren’t for the pitch blackness betwixt them. _You would only look at me in the dark…_

‘Why?’ Sansa asked.

The man hissed, shook her slightly. ‘Is it not enough to know I would? Does the little bird think me as one of her savior knights? _Aemon,_ might be? Ha!’ The force of his laugh bumped her, and she wanted to hit him there. Her body was growing sore from the hard steel of armor pressing around her, making her more irritable. He continued. 

‘I would take you to your brother, another green boy but King no less. Seek pardon,’ his hand squeezed her arm, ‘as recompense.’

‘And join his army?’ she enquired, ‘Fight for the north?’ The thought almost sent her to hysterical laughter.

‘Don’t believe he would take me, then? Fine. He’ll pay me your weight in gold and I’ll be off.’

Sansa remained silent in thought. She had told no one of what transpired in the Godswood when she went to pray. And Dontos had told her close to nothing of what he had planned for her. The fool was always stumbling drunk after her, hardly coherent and even less so when he had an air of nervousness about him. What was this fateful impasse she found herself in at this moment? On one hand Sansa knew Dontos felt he owed her for saving his life the day of Joff’s nameday tourney, and on the other she did not fully trust him, and had often wished he had but a spark of the ferociousness she found in Sandor Clegane.

 _Does he not tire from all this?_ ‘I think I am well enough to walk on my own, now.’

He grunted a reply and set her down, gently pushing her to her feet. It felt better to not be pressed against the notches and bolts any longer. Limbs sore from underuse, she stretched blindly and bumped into the large man at her side. ‘Pardon…’ she said, as if by habit.

He reached across to her and she felt his hand touch her waist once, for an instant, before finding her arm. She heard him clear his throat and then felt his hand grab for hers. She let him have it. 

‘In case you decide to get lost,’ he growled, ‘or run.’

Before she could respond, a faint blue light illuminated the stone tiles underfoot just a few paces ahead. ‘Dawn approaches,’ he rasped, and tugged hard on her hand as he sped forwards.

Twenty heartbeats passed and they arrived at the exact spot where once there was a narrow slit in the wall, something resembling a window. In it’s place, however, was a doorway, wide enough to fit three men of Sandor’s breadth side by side. But what it opened up to was nothing if not daunting. Dawn was quickly approaching, and it shone clearly through the doorway as it doubled as one large window leading out into the last wisps of smoke on the night air. Sansa looked out and down, head reeling at the distance to the ground before Sandor tugged her back to him.

‘Bloody useful this is,’ he grunted. ‘Thanks to the ghoul bitch for nothing.’

He tensed, then, ‘We’ll leave another way, stay in the shadows. Out the Mud Gate. I can bloody a few men before any one takes notice-‘

‘No,’ Sansa interrupted, ‘she would not have led us here for no reason.’ She faced him. The man’s face was drawn in weariness, scarred side as equally coated in blood as the good, his body on edge, eyes piercing hers under his brow. She imagined she might not look so different in terms of fatigue. ‘I must go back to my rooms to retrieve some things before we go. Will you wait here?’

His dark eyes squinted into the distance, leather gauntleted hands resting at his hips as he leaned on one leg, contemplative. ‘Stay if you want, little bird,’ he seemed to speak to the wind, ‘it’s no hair off my arse.’

She frowned. ‘I will come,’ the young woman reaffirmed. ‘Wait for me.’

‘Aye,’ he conceded, ‘but not for long.’

***

Running through the passageway, leaping over rusted pottery and tattered scrolls, she stopped for a moment to pick one of them up, a souvenir for the adventures she’d had in her secret passageway. She would only read it if she made it safely from this place. She found the staircase in almost no time, and bolted up the steps. When finally she approached the door, she saw it open as she had left it. Except now she heard someone rummaging about in her room.

A shadow moved above her. The silhouette of a man outlined against the dark blue of her ceiling. Sansa stood still as stone, petrified. He called down. 

‘Who’s there? Show yourself! I am armed!’

By the characteristically slurred speech Sansa recognized the fool instantly. ‘It’s only me,’ she said as rushed into her room. Before she could make it to her chest she was trapped in his flabby arms, and whirled around and around the room as he sang so incoherently that Sansa understood not a word of it. ‘What is it?’ She asked when he finally put her down. ‘What has happened? Tell me!’

‘It’s done! Done! Done! The city is saved. Lord Stannis is dead, Lord Stannis is fled, no one knows, no one cares, his host is broken, the danger’s done. Slaughtered, scattered, or gone over, they say. Oh, the bright banners! The banners, Jonquil, the banners! Do you have any wine? We ought to drink to this day, yes. It means you’re safe, don’t you see?’

 _He is mad with drink._ She pushed past him to her dresser and pulled out a satchel, dropped the old scroll in and began filling it with her woolen riding clothes and as much of her belongings as she could conveniently fit. The blade of her father’s dagger flashed when she hid it within her skirts.

Ser Dontos gasped at that and hopped over to her, almost falling. ‘My sweet Jonquil, not now! It is too early yet.’ 

She faced the fool, shook him. ‘Tell me what’s happened!’

‘They came up through the ashes while the river was burning. The river, Stannis was neck deep in the river, and they took him from the rear. Oh, to be a knight again, to have been part of it! His own men hardly fought, they say. Some ran but more bent the knee and went over, shouting for Lord Renly! What must Stannis have thought when he heard that? I had it from Osney Kettleblack who had it from Ser Osmund, but Ser Balon’s back now and his men say the same, and the gold cloaks as well. We’re delivered, sweetling! They came up the roseroad and along the riverbank, through all the fields Stannis had burned, the ashes puffing up around their boots and turning all their armor grey, but oh! the banners must have been bright, the golden rose and golden lion and all the others, the Marbrand tree and the Rowan, Tarly’s huntsman and Redwyne’s grapes and Lady Oakheart’s leaf. All the westermen, all the power of Highgarden and Casterly Rock! Lord Tywin himself had their right wing on the north side of the river, with Randyll Tarly commanding the center and Mace Tyrell the left, but the vanguard won the fight. They plunged through Stannis like a lance through a pumpkin, every man of them howling like some demon in steel. And do you know who led the vanguard? Do you? Do you? Do you?’

‘Robb?’ It was too much to be hoped, but...

‘It was the spirit of Lord Renly! Lord Renly in his green armor, with the fires shimmering off his golden antlers! Lord Renly with his tall spear in his hand! They say he killed Ser Guyard Morrigen himself in single combat, and a dozen other great knights as well. It was Renly, it was Renly, it was Renly! Oh! The banners, darling Sansa! Oh! To be a knight!’

In that instant she knew she would leave this place. She had enough of ghosts to last her a lifetime, enough of the knights turned fools and fools turned knights, and, more than anything, she had enough of the Lannisters. When she was done packing, her eyes darted towards the door in the floor. Dontos was still swinging around her room, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she still stood there watching him. A foot caught in her rug and he toppled dangerously near the hole. Suddenly, he remembered.

‘Wha…? What is this place?’ He looked into the door. ‘Where d-did you go?’ he hiccupped.

‘No where of any concern to you,’ she replied, a fist burrowing into his jerkin. She pulled him back roughly, ‘You must go now. I’ve grown weary of your drunken presence.’

The man seemed even more confused than before, hissing as he clambered back on his feet. Sansa shoved him forward, hearing him curse once before he turned and gave her one last pat on her arm, leaned in to place a wet, sloppy kiss on her cheek. ‘Not tonight my dear, but soon. The worst is almost over.’ He was finally outside her chamber door, the hall empty except for some whimpering old hag some paces away. The lanterns were dimming. Her shoulder moved to heft the bag higher there. ‘My lady, what-?’ but he had no time to finish his sentence before Sansa slammed the heavy door in his face.

Metal scratched against metal as she barred it shut.

There was close to no time left before the city awoke. _If there are enough men left alive. Well, I won't be here to see._ The rug sent up dust as she pulled it across to the door. Holding the frame and the edge of one side of the rug, she dragged them both over her head and descended into darkness.

***

Sandor stood from where he was crouching near the open doorway, gathering some coiled rope in his hands as he went. It seemed he too had thought to get supplies while she was gone. There was a look of suspicion on his face as he eyed her satchel.

'I thought it best to be prepared,' she explained. 'I'm pleased you decided to stay.'

'Not staying, and enough with the courtesies.' He grumbled as he pushed past her to test one of the dragon shaped sconces on the wall. The palm of his gloved hand struck it once, twice, and deemed it strong enough for he began to hastily tie the end of the rope to it. Strong hands pulled down hard to secure the knot, and he then turned to the shocked girl facing him.

'Little bird thinks we would fly down?' He grinned savagely at her before taking some steps in her direction, nearer to the ledge.

Silently, the rope slid against the castle wall as it descended some distance into open air. Heart heaving in her chest, Sansa put out her pale hand to the wall to steady herself.

A hand closed on her arm. 'Come now, don't tell me you're still frightened after all you've seen.' Sansa met his cold, dark eyes and saw there increasing agitation.

'What if we fall?' She asked, nausea churning in her tummy.

'Then we die. Not much we can do about that. Here, girl.' He crouched before her and brought her arms over his broad shoulders, around his neck. He smelled of iron and sweat and wine, but he did not appear drunk. If he were, Sansa was that much more frightened for what lay ahead.

'Need a stronger grip than that if you don't want to go flying now.' His rough voice brushed against her ear and she held him tighter as he hefted her up. A heavily muscled arm came around to secure her tightly against his breastplate. Fear made her bring one hand down to hike up her skirts so her shoes met on the small of his back.

The Hound seemed amused at that. 'Careful where you put those things.' He walked over to the sconce and gripped the thick rope with one hand. His skillful hands secured it around his forearms and shoulder. Sansa climbed higher on him as he approached the ledge. The tall man stood facing inward.

'I'm going to let go of you now, little bird. Keep your grip hard.'

It felt as though her heart was trying to burrow through her chest with fear. Fists held firm on his cloak, she put her cheek close to his, ignoring the smell of soot in his black, lank hair. Closing her eyes she resolved herself to praying until they made it safely to ground. The wind blew harder against her face as he stepped closer outside and he pulled up her hood.

She moved her head as if to say thank you, but all he said was 'You hair is being blown around, and someone might recognize you.'

And then, sensing her terror, added 'You should watch, in case some one spots us.'

'I will try,' was her only reply. She was brave, a Stark of Winterfell. Bran had never feared climbing, and he was only a young boy before he... _before he fell and became a cripple. Oh, Gods!_

The warmth around her back gone, Sandor began to climb down. Sansa had never clung to anything so hard in her life. Her heart felt ready to implode before she realized her eyes were closed.

The Hound's feet were against the outside wall now, moving at an infuriatingly slow pace. It would be mid day before they'd make it down, she knew, and by that time they would have been spotted, and Joffrey would have both their heads, Kingslayer be damned.

'What do you see?' His huffing voice sounded distant to her ears. Summoning some courage deep within her, she opened her eyes.

'We're alone,' she gasped. Solid ground was about twenty man heights down, a short ledge few paces distant before breaking off towards the sea. It was still too dark to see but she was able to hear distant waves, far off, sweeping against the shore.

Hearing her breath waver, Sandor teased her by patting her back, one hand on the rope. 'Stop,' she pleaded, 'hurry.' She might wretch all over him if he did that again.

A chuckle resounded from the wall. 'Everything scares you. You have nothing to fear from death, little bird.'

The ground slowly approached them as Sandor steadily brought their bodies down. They carried on in such a pace until suddenly he stopped completely. She shifted her weight on him. 'What is wrong?' Terror raked through her.

'No more rope,' he said, and the three man heights left suddenly became ten as Sansa contemplated jumping the rest of the way.

'What will we do?' Panic was rising in her chest, her head aching from a lack of sleep and the wine from earlier. His head tilted to look down, and then he tugged on the rope once before he spoke.

‘You’ll get on the rope. I’ll jump and then you will jump after me.’

‘You’re mad,’ she stated. ‘I won’t-‘

‘I will catch you, little bird.’ If that was meant to reassure her she was having none of it.

‘I can’t,’ she whimpered.

‘Then you’ll remain dangling on this rope until Joffrey’s men cut you down, and I won’t be here to catch you,’ he rasped, growing impatient.

She clamped her thighs hard around his waist, determined. ‘If you think for a moment I’d even let go of you-‘

A distant shout from below interrupted her. She gasped and they both turned to see a unit of five soldiers making their way over to them.

‘OY! THIEVES!’ one of them called. 

‘You dare steal from the King’s castle?’ 

‘Sedition!’ 

‘Treason!’

‘Come down and face justice!’

Sandor growled roughly into her ear. ‘Get on the rope,’ he commanded. His tone broached no argument. 

It took all her might to reach out one hand to grasp the scratchy line, but when she did she held it firmly as Sandor was able to maneuver around her so that he managed to tangle the rope around her waist and leg. A whipping sound close to their heads and Sansa saw an arrow rebound off the stone wall. _Mother have mercy._ The vision of Sandor’s rage at the attack gleamed from his face. ‘Fuck!’ He let go then, shaking the rope so much that Sansa cried out. 

He fell, and landed in a crouch, practiced. His sword was out before she could even blink. Four men charged him, but it was the archer he was after. Parrying every guided strike at his side, the archer had no chance to loose another arrow before Sandor’s greatsword cut clean through string, bow, and man. A limp body dropped to the grass. Then he turned to face the others.

Sansa’s body was dangling in midair, casually bumping against the wall as her blood pumped loudly in her ears. Were the Hound to die here, she would reveal herself to these men. Surely they would only send her back to the Queen, seek a reward for her capture as Sandor had wanted from Robb. A pale, orange light shone on the horizon, bathing everything in its luminescence. 

There were but three men left standing around Sandor, viciously attacking him on all sides. But the tall man was like something inhuman in his speed. The strength of his swings broke lesser swords in two, cut clean through helm and plate and meat, blood splaying all around him. Sansa watched him in horror until there were only two men left.

Another whip, but this time from above. An arrow drove straight into one soldier’s neck, a vulnerable soft spot, and blood exploded from him there. The precision needed to hit such a small target from that distance was unfathomable. The man fell to his knees, coughing blood, dying. Sansa looked up.

And saw, above her, a hooded figure. _Thank you,_ she thought distantly as she twirled.

The last man died instantly on the edge of Sandor’s sword. 

He then walked over to the dying one, kicked at his shoulder to turn him, and drove the point of his sword straight through his neck. A small mercy, to have put the young soldier out of his misery.

Sansa knew what she had to do when Sandor stood beneath her, sword sheathed at his hip.

She untangled herself from the rope, being sure to leave the knot around her arm for last. When she was ready, she took one deep breath, steadied herself, and then let go.

Strong arms encircled her in less than a heartbeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments very much appreciated :)


	8. Chapter 8

And then she was on her feet, gasping her breath. Her legs trembled beneath her, shaking off the terror that infected her, but Sandor would not let that slow them down now that they were so close.

Hard, compact earth had turned into sludge with a brown, watery liquid. The hissing rain had not ceased once through the whole night and now it plagued the bedraggled, wounded soldiers staggering by dawns light. Feet sunk into pot holes. Mud dirtied her boots up to her knees, and yet Sansa hurried on, struggling to remain in the shadow of the man in whose wake she followed. She could feel some water soaking into her socks, but she dared not look down else her exhaustion took the best of her. _So much water, even the sky holds it in contempt._ Her feet would likely rot before they made it safely out the Mud Gate.

All around came shrieks of pain, the clattering of armor and steel as men dragged themselves through the horrid destruction, towards the castle, away from the battle. Some of Stannis' men still fought on despite the battle being lost, hoping to die a soldiers death and not that of a prisoner. Though Sansa felt a pang of sympathy for the men, she would've thought retreat a better option had she been in their place.

A loud _splat!_ and an armless, bloodied knight had fallen directly at her feet, halting her in her tracks. The stench of iron filled her senses.

'Please!' He begged, looking at her. 'Water!' His hand reached up.

Scanning his strewn form, the young woman saw through his helm he was not much older than she. Small wisps of stubble on his cheeks, a nose sprinkled with freckles. He might've spent much time in the sun, this one. And those glazed, suffering eyes, eyes blue as a summer sky. Sansa moved towards him, shrugging off her satchel for her water skin. She looked down once, her hand already wrapped around the leathery bag.

And screamed when blood exploded from the boys throat. Knees shaking, she looked to the looming figure of Sandor Clegane with horror.

'Didn't I tell you to stop for nothing?' He looked ready to strike her.

'You needn't have killed him!' She called to his back. The nausea was returning, her head starting to swim with the faces of dying soldiers, the cries of pain and anger all around her.

'He saw you. Recognized you,' he roared. Heads turned to eye him, some even called out. Too many spilled out intestines, too many crushed skulls, too many desperate pleas for help answered by naught but crows. The gate seemed leagues away and everywhere she looked there was smoke and blood and mud, like something out of her nightmares.

Nightmares, dreams, it reminded her of sleep. She would've liked that. To be back in the warmth of her linen sheets, far away from this tragic chaos, no more bearing witness to the life fading from a fair face, turning blue as his own eyes. To be back there, where all she'd need bear were the brunts of Joffreys anger. She had borne it for so long, what was a little while longer until Dontos finally did manage to steal her away? Joff might not even be so angry as before now that his battle was won. He might spare her just yet...

Warmth and stickiness squished through her fingers and she realized she had fallen forward. A white plume of mist from her breath mingled with the fetid air. Her hands were dirty, dress, boots and all. Her body begged to be laid down, if only for a short rest. It would not take long at all, just to close her eyes for a moment, dream of warmth, safety...

Something tugged at her back and a weight was lifted from her. The mud was a blur of brown and black and red. The screaming was becoming incessant now, something about the Queens orders. Sansa thought of Cersei, of how she had run from her ladies in waiting, escaped from her majestic ballroom like a coward in the face of danger. She distantly recalled something being discussed about Joff before she felt her hands and feet both being drawn from the mud, up and over a wall.

No, not a wall, but a hard saddle. A hand swept through a silky black mane and for an instant she thought she was finally dreaming. _Finally,_ until a rough voice called down to her, behind her, seemingly distant. 'Stay awake a little while longer.' But she needed rest. The lids of her eyes felt like heavy iron gates, the hinges of which had long rusted from the rain. No, they could hold no longer.

A cold, gloved hand clenched her dirty chin, forcing her face up. She saw white, and she saw him. His face was like a shadow, his voice echoing in the corridors of his hood. 'I want to see blue from here,' he commanded.

And he did. The iron gates held open for him, the contours of his face making their way through to her. The smoke was gone, the drizzle barely felt on her frozen cheeks. It was long enough, she knew. _So long, I could look at you with my eyes closed._

***  
It was near dusk when her eyes had flickered open. The trees and brush of the forest flew past in a dark commotion, wind whipping across her face. Cleganes stallion drove hard onto a path seemingly invisible to Sansas own eyes. Or maybe it was not a path at all, and the beast all but followed its own instinct through the undergrowth.

Her heart nearly flew from her chest when the horse leaped over a mangled root, but a gauntleted arm held her firmly in the saddle. Her back was pressed uncomfortably against his breastplate. She had no idea how she had managed to sleep so heavily, and for so long, through this part of their escape.

Some drizzle managed to snake its way through the leafy overhang. She might've been grateful for something stronger if just to wash away the dirt and grime from her features. The taste of mud was on her lips, and she wiped at it with her cloak. That only made her dirtier.

'Awake at last,' a rasping voice came from behind. 'Could've sworn you'd turned to stone in my arms at the last instant.'

'I can hardly remember... Where are we?'

'Far away from the Red Keep now, little bird. No use in looking back.' He rolled his shoulders back once. 'And we're keeping well off the main rode 'else we run into some troops or trading caravans, or some other trouble.'

'Some other trouble. Like bandits?'

'Aye, little bird, like bandits. Or Lannister knights and search parties.' Some silence while the horse jumped again, rocking both riders. Sansa groaned.

'We'll find a proper place to rest soon. But not for too long. We'll ride by night.'

'But we can hardly see where we're going,' she protested.

'And neither can anyone else.' He sighed, tired. 'Leave the navigating to me, will you?'

'As you say,' she said. 'Somewhere dry, if you will.'

'What?'

'Find us some place dry to rest.'

He barked a laugh. 'As you say, _my lady._ '

They rode on, and Sansa became increasingly aware of the forest around them as the man behind her grew ever more weary. Her sense of sight dulled, the noises in the trees and bushes seemed to come alive. Creaking and squeaking and crackling, the hoot of an owl, the squeal of a mouse, the crunching of dead leaves, and, once, the trickle of a stream. And birds. The millions of different calls of countless birds, reflecting against the shadows of the trees.

Though it had stopped raining, the air smelled like a mixture of water and earth, and just a trace of hay from the beast beneath her. She breathed deep the calm night air, letting it cleanse her lungs of the stench of smoke and debris. She exhaled, the sound mingling with those around her. It felt natural.

It felt _free._

Not long after, Sansa felt the flexing of Sandors thighs as he slowed the horse down to a dull canter, then a full stop.

He pushed her forward a little roughly as he dismounted, grunting when he hit the ground. Gloved hands were dragging her down in the next moment and she staggered to her feet.

Sandor reeled, hand extended as of in search of something. She moved quickly to grab him.

'Are you unwell?' she asked, voice rank with worry.

They moved together to the nearest tree, a thick oak where he abruptly slouched at its base.

'Just... ah, tired, is all.' He drew up one knee, leaned his head back against the bark. Sansa still held his arm.

She crouched near him. 'We should rest, then.' She made as if to sit by him, but he stopped her.

'Not you. You've had your rest. You keep watch. Hear that cricket there?' The noise came from a nearby shrub, slow and in intervals.

'Yes,' she said curiously.

'Count three hundred of its song, then wake me.'

'I can count to four if you'd like to sleep longer,' she tried, but he had already drifted off, so tired had he been.

And just like that, Sansa found herself alone in the dark forest.

***  
Shivering back pressed hard against the sleeping mans arm, she had counted to one hundred before the fear became an increasingly malicious burden. A strange noise would make itself heard not a few paces from her, making the place that much more spectral. Thoughts of being discovered crowded her mind, leaving her feeling morose. The black stallion stood somewhere nearby, untethered. Someone would come out from the darkness, steal the horse, steal her. She would scream and fight but then there would come more. And by that time Sandor would already be awake and he might've been able to kill five men but what about six? What if there were more of them? And if he was still too tired to fight?

 _One hundred nineteen, one hundred twenty, one hundred twenty one..._ leaving her alone was the worst thing he could've done for her at that point. Her breathing became rushed, heart aching in her chest. Just earlier that same day she had stared into the glazed eyes of warriors shocked by their own mortality, and, worse, despairing with the misery of lost limbs, scarred faces, lost futures. And this was only the start, she knew. So long as she kept close to this man, Sandor Clegane, pain and death would follow. She would be subjected to those images for the rest of her journey North. If she would even make it so far.

If the men in the brush didn't get to her first.

She pushed harder against Sandor as if to burrow into him. _Two hundred and one, two hundred and two, two hundred and three..._ and she remembered her dagger. Her hand dug into her muddied skirts and resurfaced with the blade, glinting in the moonlight. Both fists held firm the handle and she held it close to her chest, a grisly consolation to her fleeting heart. But, deep down in the recesses of her mind, she knew it would grant her no safety. She didn't know how to wield it, and any man of a breadth smaller than Sandor could easily overpower her for it.

 _Two hundred seventy four, two hundred seventy five, two hundred seventy six... You have nothing to fear from death, little bird._ Oh, but she did. Sansa Stark had everything to fear from death. She had sinned, and if she would freely invite death she would be cast down to some hell to suffer with Sandor Clegane, together. She had betrayed everyone she ever loved, betrayed the king she was sworn to marry, betrayed her Florian... _Gods! I'm going mad!_

'Three hundred!' The girl was shaking the Hound into consciousness. 'Three hundred!'

Strong hands gripped her forearms, steadying her. 'Enough,' he growled, and, like the soft flowing of a stream, Sansa began to cry.

Through the fog of her vision a flash of light moved across the mans face. His dark eyes darted to the hand that held the dagger. His tight grip there twisted her wrist so hard she dropped it.

Sansa was sobbing, body wracked in shivers. 'Where did you get this?' he whispered raggedly. She placed a hand over her heart, but the pain did not relent. 'What were you...?' But he stopped when he saw her.

The shaking was like a terrible fever running through her. She needed a maester, some milk of the poppy to quell her heart. Her sobbing was audible now, but she was too far for any maester to hear.

Sandor pulled her from where she crouched before him. Pulled her into his arms, against his cold breast plate.

'Shh, little bird, I know. Think I don't? I was younger even than you when I saw my first man killed, but you already know that, don't you? Killed of a like to harden any green boy into a man at that age. If I can recall you've seen men killed too. That knight who took Gregors lance. You're a brave girl. You did not turn away then.'

Sansa knew all that already, but she found it calmed her down some just to listen to him talk. The shaking was slowly beginning to subside. 'It wasn't the same. I saw him, his eyes. He was so scared,' she moved her head to look at him.

'Scared because he didn't know a damn thing, little bird. What did he know about death? What about your Gods, eh? What about your Seven Heavens? Forgot about them quickly enough.'

'Are you trying to t-tell me you believe in the Seven now?' It was meant as a joke, but her voice made it sound so pitiable to her own ears.

His chest puffed out in a sigh. 'If there are Gods, they've never wanted anything to do with me. Who would, a dog as ugly as me?' She almost laughed at that, told him the Gods cared nothing for beauty and love every person equally. But then she remembered his scars, the things his brother had done to him. Guilt raked through her then.

'I am sorry,' she whispered.

He cleared his throat. 'For what?'

'For being this way. I know I am stronger, that I shouldn't be frightened.' She turned to him, her face close where as she huddled in his lap. 'Others have lived through far worse than I.'

'Aye, might be they have. But your pain is just as real, little bird. Don't let anyone tell you any different.'

She might've stayed there all night if he hadn't eventually nudged her off of him. They would need to carry on with their journey before daybreak, cover some more distance in case the Queen had already sent out for their capture. Eating would come later. And bathing, if they were lucky enough to find that stream again.

Astride the black stallion again, Sansa felt strangely different. She could call herself brave, and she felt a sense of assurance. She knew she could make it North, to Winterfell. Robb and her mother were waiting for her, and maybe even Arya, if she had managed to find her way back. Wouldn't they all be surprised to see her with Joffs sworn shield? They would hold the upper hand with the Kingslayer then, a desperately needed advantage.

The young woman ran a thin hand through the horses mane, reveling in the silky feel of the thick strands. 'What do you call him?' she asked the man behind her.

'Stranger,' he rasped, and she almost laughed.


End file.
